FRAGMENTS, 



IN 



PEOSE and VERSE. 






\ 



FRAGMENTS, 



IN 



PROSE and VERSE: 

BY 

A YOUNG LADY, 



WITH 'SOME ACCOUNT OF 



HER LIFE AND CHARACTER, 

BY THE 

Author of " Sermons on the Doctrines and Duties 
of Christianity. 

SECOND EDITION. 

PRINTED BY 
RICHARD CRUTTWELL, ST. JAMES's-STREET, BATH ; 

AND SOLD BY 

CADELL AND DAVIES, STRAND, HATCHARD, PICCADILLY, 

LONDON; AND S. CHEYJJE, EDINBURGH. 

1808. 



7 R o^r • 






J 






INTRODUCTION. 



nr^HE favour with which memoirs and letters 
are generally received by the public, has 
encouraged the production of a great many bio- 
graphical works, written on very different prin- 
ciples, and which must be perused with very 
different feelings. The delight with which every 
friend of science and virtue reads the life of Sir 
William Jones, of Dr. Beattie, of Mr. Cowper, 
or of Mrs. Carter, can furnish no excuse for 
publications, in which some of the most vicious 
characters that disgrace the present times, are 
dragged into notice, to disgust or to corrupt 
succeeding generations. For such an insult on 



[ vi ] 

the principles and the taste of the reader no 
apology can be offered; but when the character 
that is brought before the public is really de- 
serving of esteem, the feeling heart will view 
with indulgence the partial fondness of sur- 
viving friendship, which endeavours to save 
from oblivion the objecl of its aifecYion, and to 
strew a few flowers on the humble tomb of 
departed virtue. 

The following pages will not be found to 
contain a single sentence which can give pain 
to any human being; and though nothing in 
this colle&ion was written with a view to pub- 
lication, yet, as the delicacy which always 
shrunk from observation cannot now be 
wounded by praise or blame, it is, I hope, 
allowable to remove the veil which an excess 
of modest reserve threw over uncommon merit. 

To the friends of the author, for whom this 
little volume is principally intended, the names 
of a few persons who are mentioned in it will 



[ vii ] 

be known. To the public it is presumed they 
cannot be interesting. The Young Lady whose 
talents and virtues are here pointed out to the 
reader, was little known in the world. Her 
short life was spent in retirement, and it affords 
no incidents to awaken curiosity ; but it offers 
an example, which may be useful to all her sex, 
and particularly to the younger part of it; and 
I am encouraged to hope, that her writings may 
not be uninteresting to readers of a very different 
description.* I have oniy noticed such circum- 
stances in her " short and simple annals," as 
seemed necessary to explain her letters, and to 
shew the progress of her improvement in dif- 
ferent branches of science. The use which she 
made of learning, and the effect which it pro- 
duced on her conduct in life, may be collected 
from many parts of the following work, which 
will prove that every acquisition in science only 

* See a letter from the Rev. Dr. R — to Mrs. S — , in 
the Appendix. 



increased the humility of her natural chara&er; 
while extensive reading, and deep reflexion, 
added strength to her convi&ion of those great 
truths of revealed religion, which in life and 
in death supported her through every trial, and 
which can alone afford consolation to the pa- 
rents and friends who live to mourn her loss. 



FRAGMENTS 



IN PROSE AND VERSE. 



"\ /flSS Elizabeth S — was born in the year 
-***-*■ 1776. Some particulars relating to the early- 
part of her life may be learnt from a letter written 
soon after her death by her afflicted mother to the 
Rev. Dr. R — , in consequence of his request that she 
would inform him of such circumstances with re- 
gard to the gradual progress of her daughter's mind, 
as had not come .under his own observation.* I 
will only mention here a few particulars, which 
seem necessary to explain her writings. 

* See Appendix. 



[ 2 ] 

When I first saw Miss S — >, in the summer of 
the year 1789, she was only in her thirteenth year, 
and her extreme timidity made it difficult to draw 
her into conversation; but even then I saw many 
proofs of very uncommon talents. We were fre- 
quently together during the three following years; 
either at Piercefield, where Mr. and Mrs. S-— then 
resided; or at Bath, where Miss S-— and her sisters 
were often with us. At that time Elizabeth asto- 
nished us -by the facility with which she acquired 
information on every subje^l. She excelled in every 
thing that she attempted. Music, Dancing, Draw- 
ing, and Perspective, were then her chief pursuits, 
and she succeeded in all ; but even at that early age, 
her greatest pleasure seemed to be reading, which she 
would pursue with unwearied attention, during so 
many hours, that I often endeavoured to draw her 
away from her books, as I feared that such close 
application might injure her health. She was then 
well acquainted with the French and Italian lan- 
guages, and had made considerable progress in the 
study of Geometry, and some other branches of the 
Mathematics. At every period of her life she was 
extremely fond of poetry. The following fragment 
is dated in June 1792; 



r 3 ] 



The Sun, just rising from his wat'ry bed, 
"Shook from his golden locks the briny drops; 
The Earth her many-colour'd mantle spread, 
And caught the crystal on her flow'rets tops; 
While Nature smil'd. to see her rising crops 
With brighter beauty glow, and richer hues ; 
As now the night her sable chariot stops, 
Each drooping flow'r, refresh'd with morning dews, 
.Lifts its gay head, and aH around its fragrance strews. 



So fair the morn, when Emma, fairer still, 
Left the lone cottage, now her sole retreat; 
And wander'd musing o'er the neighb'ring hill, 
With downcast eyes, which weeping look'd more sweet. 
Down to the vale she turo'd her trembling feet; 
There, in the middle of a shady wood, 
O'erhung with trees, which branch to branch did meet, 
Glided a gentle stream, where, as it stood, 
Each bough its image sbew'<l in the clear glassy flood. 

in. 

Here paus'd the Nymph, and on the bank reclin'd, 
J Neath a large oak fann'd by each gentle gale; 
She swell'd the brook with tears, with sighs the wind, 
And thus her melancholy fate 'gan wail. 

b e 



[ 4 ] 

And ye, who read her sad and mournful tale. 
Oh! drop one tender sympathetic tear! , 
Think that the best of human kind is frail, 
Nor knows the moment when his end is near ; 
But all sad Emma's hapless fate must fear. 

IV, 

" How fair each form in youthful fancy's eyes, 
" Just like the tender flow'rs of blooming May; 
" Like them in all their beauty they arise, 
« Like them they fade, and sudden die away. 
" We mourn their loss, and wish their longer stay, 
" But all in vain ; — no more the flow'rs return, 
" Nor fancy's images divinely gay ! 
" So pass'd my early youth ; then in its turn 
" Each fancied image pleas'd; for each at times I burn. 

v. 

"How charming then o'er hill and vale to stray, 
" When first the sun shot forth his morning beam; 
" Or when at eve he hid his golden ray, 
" To climb the rocks, and catch the last faint gleam; 
*' Or when the moon imbru'd in blood did seem, 
" To watch her rising from the distant hill, 
" Her soft light trembling on the azure stream, 
" Which gently curl'd, while all beside was still ; 
" How would such scenes my heart with admiration fill! 



C 5 ] 



VI. 



«< But now, alas ! these peaceful days are o'er; 
" Fled like the summer breeze that wakes the dawn, 
" Wafts spicy odours swift from shore to shore, 
« And gathers all the fragrance of the lawn ; 
" Yet ere his noon-day crown the sun adorn, 
" 'Tis past, 'tis gone; no more the scorching plains 
" Can shew where blew the gentle breath of morn; 
" The brook, the cattle, and the shepherd swains, 
" All seek the shade; — but peace for Emma none remains ! : 



In May, 1792, Miss H — accompanied me to 
Pierceneld ; and it is not extraordinary that simi- 
larity of talents and pursuits, as well as sympathy in 
every thing that is good and amiable, should lead 
Elizabeth to attach herself strongly to her. From 
that time a correspondence began, from which I have 
made a few extracts, to shew what were her studies 
and amusements at fifteen years of age. 

"To Miss H . 

" Julj/1, 1792. I 
" I am much obliged to you for all the informa- 
tion in your last letter, and I hope I have found 
out what you wanted, I have been measuring cir- 



t 6 J 

ties, and find that my former conje&ure was right? 

&c. &c. 1 know not whether I have explained 

this properly, but so it appears to me. I was a little 
mortified to see that my table was not quite exaS, 
though I fear it is as near as it can be brought; but 
if this way of making equal squares and circles is 
right, it will make me amends. The line in Dante- 
is very applicable, but I desire you will not begin to 
despair yet. I do not, though there are many things 
that I prefer to these Mathematics. At the head of 
them stands Poetry. I thought some parts of Tasso< 
extremely fine. Dante I have hot read. At present 
I am engaged in an argument with my dear Miss 
B — , concerning Ossian. I support him against all 5 
other poets. You may easily guess who* will get 
the better ; but I will say all I can for Ossian, for I 
really love his poems beyond all others. Milton 
must stand alone; but surely Ossian is in some re- 
spects superior to Homer. Can you find any thing 
equal to his descriptions of nature > his address ta 
the Sun in Carthon, that to the Moon in Darthula, 
and the last hymn ? Surely in i( the joy of grief," 
and in night scenes, there is nothing equal to him. 
I would rather read the description of one of his 
ghosts than of all Homer's gods. One of my greatest 



[ 1 r 

reasons for admiring him is, that all his heroes are 
so good* There is not one of them that would be 
guilty of a cruel action for the world, nor would they 
insult over the dead. In short, one cannot help loving 
almost every person Ossian mentions. Besides, there 
are no vulgar descriptions,, but every word is poetry*- 
By way of comparison, look at some particular de- 
scription in Homer and in Ossian: suppose it is a 
moon-light ; you will find but one of any conse- 
quence in Homer, and thenitisonly asimile, though 
a very beautiful one; it begins at the 637th line of 
the 8th book. Compare it with any one of the vast- 
number you will find in Ossian. I think the idea 
of the Moon retiring to weep for the sisters she has 
lost, is finer than all the philosophy on- the subject* 
I love your flowery meadows, and murmuring 
streams; but I cannot help preferring rude moun- 
tains, roaring torrents, and rocky precipices. I could 
wander with pleasure in your sequestered vale, but 
should feel more transported by the grandeur of one 
«f Ossian's night scenes." &c. 

'^Jaly 27, 1792-' 

" We have not received any certain information 
respecting the Castle j. but. Lam inclined to give h 7 . 



[ 8 ] 

whatever it was, to Llewellyn ap Gryffydd, whom we 
have determined to kill on a piece of ground adjoin- 
ing to it; and Mr. Williams, who is writing the his- 
tory of Monmouthshire, told us, that Buillt, where 
it has been said he died, is somewhere near this 
place; he does not know exactly where it is, but we 
will find it out. I am sure it is in our woods. If 
this be not true, it is at least such a pretty little 
fiction, and so harmless, that I really must believe 
it. I wish you would write a poem on his death, 
and place it in our wood. You must say that it is 
translated from an old Welsh bard, and that will set 
the matter beyond a doubt." 

" August 13. 

" I am so delighted with what you say of Llewel- 
lyn, that I cannot rest till I write to you. Has Mrs. 

: shewn the manuscript to any person who 

understands Welsh ? She would not perhaps like to 
trust the original out of her own hands; but if she 
w T ould have it copied, we could easily get it trans- 
lated for her, and should consider ourselves highly 
obliged by a sight of it. If it is what Mrs. ■ 
supposes, it will indeed be invaluable. I have a 
great mind to believe that our Castle in the wood is 



[ 9 ] 

the Castle of Buillt, for no one seems to know ex- 
actly where that is; and if the prince was killed in 
our grounds, it certainly is so. I hope the manu- 
script will settle all our doubts ; at present we are 
obliged to fight hard, with every body we meet, in 
maintaining our cause. I am charmed with the 
name of Gwillim of Gwhent, the Blue Knight; it 
would be a good one for the hero of aromance. ,, 



The Castle mentioned in these Letters requires 
some explanation. Elizabeth discovered some re- 
mains of buildings in a wood, and thought she could 
trace out several round towers, a moat, &c. I re- 
member our walking over the spot where her lively 
imagination had built a Castle, of which she drew 
a plan from the slight traces which remained. 
She was then unacquainted with architecture, but I 
shewed her little drawing to a gentleman who per- 
fectly understood the subject., and he said that he 
believed she was right in her conjecture, for the 
plan she had drawn was exactly what was usually 
adopted by the Romans in their castles. The fol- 
lowing paper will shew the indefatigable application 
with which Elizabeth pursued the enquiries, which 



C 10 ] 

a passage in Warrington's History of Wales led hep 
to make, in regard to the situation of Buillt, and- 
some other circumstance mentioned by him** 

♦Account of the death of Llewellyn, from Warrington V 
History of Wales, page 509. 

" Lewellyn proceeded to the cantrew of Buillt, near the 
water of Wye. — 

" The Prince was waiting in a small grove* 

On the enemies first assault, his Esquire came to inform him- 
that he heard a great outcry at the bridge. The Prince 
eagerly asked if his people were in possession of the bridge; 
and being told that they were, he calmly replied,, then he 
would not stir from thence, though the whole power of Eng- 
land were on the other side of the river. This confidence,, 
tho' not improperly placed, laated but a moment, the grove 
being surrounded by the enemies horse. Beset on every side, 
and cut off from his army, Llewellyn endeavoured as secretly 
as he could to make good his retreat, and to join the troops 
he had stationed on the mountain, who, drawn up in battle 
array, were eagerly expecting the return of their prince. In 
making this attempt, he was discovered and pursued by 
Adam de Francton, who, perceiving him to be a Welshman, 
and not knowing his quality, plunged his spear into the body 
of the prince, being unarmed and incapable of defence.. The 
Welsh were afterwards defeated, and left two thousand men 
dead on the field. All this time Llewellyn lay on the 
ground, faint, and almost expiring. He had just life enough 



[ « ] 

( * Arthur seems to have been king of Gwhent^ 
which comprehended all Monmouthshire, part of the 
dioceses of Hereford and Worcester, and the part of 
Glocestershire between the Wye and the Severn. 
Milton mentions Buillt in Brecknockshire. Camden 
mentions Kair-Lheon as a great city r having three- 
churches, one of which was honoured with the me- 
tropolitan see of Wales. Here the Roman Ambas- 
sadors received their audience at the illustrious court 
of the great King Arthur. &c. 

" Upon the river Wye is Buillt. Whether this- 
town be the ancient Bullceum, or whether that city 
or fort were not at a place called Karcen, some miles 
distant from it, may be questioned. If it be urged 
m favour of Buillt, that it seems still to retain its an- 
cient name; it may be answered that Buillt, which 
I interpret Ox-cliff, or Oxen-hill, was the name of a* 
small country here, from whence in all probability 

remaining to ask for a priest. A white friar, who chanced 
to be present, administered to the dying Prince the last 
duties of his office. The hurry of the action being ended,. 
Franclon came back to strip the person he had wounded. 
On viewing the body which was still breathing, it was 
found, to the great joy of the English army, that it was 
the Prince of Wales." 



[ 12 ] 

(he ancient Bulloeum was denominated j but that be- 
ing totally destroyed, and this town becoming after- 
wards the most noted place of the country, it might 
receive its name from it as the former had done. 
But since the congruity of the names was the main 
argument that induced our learned author to assign 
this situation to the ancient Bulloeum Silurum, we 
shall have occasion of hesitating, if hereafter we find 
the ruins of a Roman fort or city in a neighbouring 
country of the Silures." — Carte, 



The above is only a very small part of the extracts 
made by Miss S — , from Smollet, Collier, Carte, 
Camden, and Monasticon Ang. on this subject. In 
a letter to Miss H — , dated December 12, 1792, 
she encloses a Poem, of which she says, " Being 
determined to have a poem on Llewellyn's death, 
and not being able to persuade you, my dear friend, 
to commit forgery, I have been obliged to try my 
hand at it, and I send it to you, because you desire 
me to continue rhyming ; though without making 
use of any of the modesty for which you so kindly 
give me credit, I must see that I do not deserve all 
that you say on that subjecl:. However, if it is your 



[ 13 ] 

true opinion, you must be delighted at being desired 
to read this volume of nonsense; and if it is not, I 
have taken the most effectual method to cure you of 
complimenting. Can you tell on what part of the 
banks of the Wye to find Mochros and Hentlan ? 
I can only find that Hentlan is between the rivers 
Wye and Irgudina, which last I can no where dis- 
cover. Do not go far to look for it, as I know by 
experience what an undertaking it is. All those old 
authors copy after each other, and make nothing 
but confusion. I prefer my own way of making 
the history just as I please, without consulting one 
of them; and upon that principle, I intend to put 
the places I have mentioned, at or near Piercefield." 

A supposed Translation from a Welsh Poem, lately dug up at 

Piercefjeld, in the same spot where Lletvelln 

ap Gryffyd was slain, Dec. \Oth, 1281. 

Round Snowdon's shaggy brows grim darkness hung, 
Save that the moon, the gather'd clouds among, 
Shot forth at times a dimly-gleaming ray, 
Then wat'ry, pale, turn'd her sad face away. 
In Merlin's cave I sate, 

And mark'd her tearful eye ; 

Which seem'd to mourn the fate 

Decreed for some on high. 



[ i* 3 

What fate's decreed by heav'n, blest beam of night, 
That so disturbs thy sweetly-smiling light? 
£Jo more it shines; — Thou turn'st thy face with scorn, 
<And darkly leav'st me, wretched and forlorn. 
Down the steepi&e torrent roars, 

Loud the thunder rings from far, 
Billows shake the rocky shores, 
All resounds the din of war. 

'But hark! — This elemental war is drown'd 
In one more great, and more terrific sound; 
A sound high Snowdon from his base to tear, 
A sound the spirits of the dead shall fear! 

Spirits of my sires, attend! 

•Down from your clouds, ye blest ones, bend! 

Tell me, whence these shrieks of woe 

With cries of death confus'dly flow? 

Great Merlin, thou, the chief of Prophets, hear! 
To thy own cave 'mid stormy winds draw near; 
Pour on my darken'd soul thy light divine, 
And give it in fair truth's bright blaze to shine. 

He comes, he comes, in mist array'd, 

Slow and solemn glides the shade! 

And while die speaks, the earth stands still, 

List'ning to his mighty will. 

" Heav'n-favour'd Bard, my words attentive hear, 
4< Words such as ne'er were giv'n to mortal ear; 



[ 15 ] 

■* I tell the woes to-morrow's sun shall bring, 

" Cambria shall fall, shall lose her much-lov'd king. 

" On Vaga's banks, near to where once Buillt stood, 

" O'erlooking fair Sabrina's silver flood, 

« Pierc'd with a spear ingloriously he'll fall, 

« Whence future times that spot shall Piercefield calL" 

So saying, like the meteor's blaze, 
The spirit flies ; 
And while I gaze, 

The dim red light in darkness dies ! 

But, oh, my country! how shall I deplore 
Thy cruel doom? Cambria shall be no morel 
Llewellyn too, our guardian king, shall fall, 
Jn him we lose our only hope, — our all ! 

Blow, ye winds; and roar, ye waves; 

Rend the mountains' inmost caves; 

Let loose the spirits of the storm, 

Bid them rise in human form. 

More fierce than they, in human form appears 
That barb'rous Prince, who causes all our tears$, 
A tiger's heart he bears beneath that face, 
Which seems to promise honour, goodness, grace, 
Let lightning flash, 

And thunder growl, 
Let torrents dash, 

And the black tempest o'er me scowl ; 



[ 16 3 

This soul, in unison with ev'ry gust, 
Shall rage and burn till I be turn'dto dust; 
Ne'er shall I patient brook my country's doom, 
But sighing, sorrowing, sink into the tomb. 



Daughters of Cambria, with me mourn, 

Sing the sad woe-breathing strain; 
From your fair heads the ringlets torn 

Scatter round th' ensanguin'd plain. 
No more in summer's even tide 

Your gentle flocks you'll lead 
To where the brook, with flow'ry side. 

Slow wanders through the mead; 
But soon to conquerors rude a prey, 

You'll quit your native land, 
And drag through life your mournful way, 

A wretched, captive band! 

Warriors, break the sounding mail, 

Cast down the lance, the helm untie; 
Arms shall now no more avail, 

For you before the foe shall fly. 
No more, in deeds of arms renown'd, 

You'll dare the single light; 
Or with exulting laurels crown'd, 

Assert your country's right; 



L 17 J 

But to the woods and marshes driv'n, 

Ingloriously you'll sigh; 
For ah ! to you it is not giv'n 

Amidst your friends to die ! 

To Piercefield's Cliffs, I'll now a pilgrim go 9 
Shed o'er my Prince belov'd the tears of woe ; 
There will I seek, some deep and rocky cell, 
Amidst the thick entangled wood to dwell; 

There indulge my plaintive theme, 

To the wan moon's icy beam ; 

While the rocks responsive ring, 

To my harp's high-sounding string; 

Vaga stops her rolling tide, 

List'ning to her ancient pride; 

Birds and beasts my song attend, 
And mourn with me our country's fatal end! 

"To Miss H . 

" Bath, Feb. 27, 1793. 

" Miss B. and I wish for you every day, so that 
you are in no danger of being forgotten between us^ 
and whilst we remember you, we cannot forget to 
love you. I am much obliged to you for all the 
trouble you have taken about the places I wished to 
find, but I believe it is a fruitless search. I am 



[ 18 ] 

persuaded their situation is not known, and I intend 
to place them where I choose to have them. 

" The above was written this morning, when I 
did not expect to leave this place before Friday, but 
I now find we are to go home to-morrow 5 and I 
must, however unwillingly, make an end of my let- 
ter. I hope to have more time at Piercefield, where 
we are now all to meet, after having been scattered 
over the face of the earth for the last half year. I 
shall be excessively grieved, zsyou can imagine, to 

leave our dear friend ; but otherwise I shall not 

regret Bath." 

At the commencement of the war, in the year 
1793, many Banks in the West of England failed, 
and Mr. S — 's was unfortunately of that number. 
The domestic happiness to which Elizabeth looked 
forward when she wrote the last letter, was fatally 
interrupted by this event ; and I received from her 
the following letter, written only five days after she 
left Bath. The importance of the subject probably 
induced me to preserve this letter, when I destroyed 
many others which I shall never cease to regret, 
Alas ! I little thought that I should live to mourn 
the early death of my amiable young friend, whose 



. 



[ 19 ] 

talents and virtues were my pride and delight, and 
who I hoped would have been an ornament and a 
blessing to the world, long after I was removed from 
it ! It has pleased God to order otherwise. 

" Piercefield, March 3, 1793. 
w We were within an hour of setting off from 
hence, and intended to have seen you, my dearest 
friend, to-morrow ; when we were prevented, and I 
may say it is the only time I have ever rejoiced at 
being prevented seeing you. Last night, after my 
Mother wrote to you, we were informed by a friend, 
that there was an execution against my Father. At 

ten o'clock at night came to take possession 

of the house. It was secured, so that they could 
not enter; hut you may imagine the horror of our 
situation in that night of storms. Fortunately, the 
next day being Sunday, we had to watch only till 
twelve o'clock; and to-day we were preparing to go 
away at eight this evening, when we heard that my 
Father's attorney was come from London, that the 
money was provided, and the execution stopped. 
There is to be a meeting of creditors to-morrow, 
who are to have an exacl: statement of all the con- 
cerns of the Bank. My Mother supported herself 
c 2 



[ 20 ] 

wonderfully last night, but to-day she was quite ex* 
hausted, till this news revived her a little. Mr. and 

Mrs. were in dreadful anxiety this morning, 

but I hope they too are a little comforted;* in short 
the prospect now appears bright to what it did two 
hours ago, and we shall all, I hope, bear whatever 
happens with fortitude. Above all, my beloved 
friend, I entreat you not to be uneasy, for I trust all 
will be well. My only apprehension has been for 
my Mother; and I confess it has been hard work to 
appear cheerful, when I saw her agitated to the 
greatest degree, and knew I could in no way be of 
the least use; but she shewed great resolution, when- 
ever it was necessary. My Father now writes in 
better spirits, and I am happy to see her a little 

* In the summer of the year 1791, when the Bank was 
in a very flourishing state, Mr. , who was the neigh- 
bour and friend of Mr. S — , put his name in the firm, without 
advancing any part of the capital, or receiving any share of 
the emoluments ; but on condition that his son should be 
taken into the house as a clerk, and be admitted a partner on 
his coming of age. In consequence of this circumstance, 

Mr. was involved in the misfortune which happened in 

the year 1793 ; to the regret of all who knew him, and par- 
ticularly of the S — family, as all the letters which I received 
from them at this period strongly prove. 



[ 21 ] 

more at ease. My Mother desires me to say a thou- 
sand kind things for her. The servants have behaved 
nobly, and she has had all the comfort that friends 
can give. If she had none but you, she would be 
rich enough; and I shall wish for nothing more 
whilel know you are mine. Adieu, my dearest — ." 



I went to Piercefield on the following day ; but I 
will not attempt to describe the scene to which I 
was then a witness. Afflictions so nobly supported 
make the sufferers objects of envy rather than pity ; 
a change of fortune, so sudden, and so unexpected, 
was a great trial, but it was received in a manner to 
command the respect of all who witnessed it. I had 
long seen and admired Mrs. S — , in the situation 
in which she seemed peculiarly formed to shine; in 
one of the finest places in England, surrounded by 
her lovely children, with all the elegant comforts of 
affluence, and delighting her happy guests by the 
fascinating charms of her conversation. Through 
all the misfortunes which marked the period of which 
I am now speaking, I can with truth say of Mrs. 
S — , what she says of her beloved daughter, that I 
do not recollect a single instance of a murmur hav- 



[ 22 ] 

ing escaped her, on account of the loss of fortune ; 
but there were other circumstances attending this 
sad event, which such a heart as hers must deeply 
feel 5 and a letter which is now before me, speaks the 
language of all that I received from her at that pe- 
riod : " The business is again delayed. I am 

averse to this prolongation of our misery, but it is a 

duty we owe to to do every thing which can 

be likely to save them. Oh, my friend, if this 
amiable family were but secure, I should be no 
longer miserable 5 but as it is, the thought of their 
situation sometimes sinks me almost to despair." 
This was an affliction, under which even conscious 
rectitude was not sufficient to support her ; but the 
loss of fortune, as it was occasioned neither by ex- 
travagance nor vice, and dignified by such conduct 
as secured the respect and esteem of their friends, 
was supported by every individual of the family with 
truly christian fortitude and resignation. 

In a few days after I went to Piercefield, my friends 
quitted it for ever; and the young ladies spent seven 
or eight months with us,, in and near Bath. The 
time which was thus spent with my Mother, was 
certainly of great advantage to my young friends; 
for she was extremely fond of them, and nothing 



[ 23 ] 

can be more just than what Mrs. S — says of her 
peculiarly happy manner of conveying instruction. 
Many of their favourite pursuits had been inter- 
rupted. They had lost the sublime scenes of Pierce- 
iield, which furnished an infinite variety of subjects 
for the pencil. They drew extremely well, and 
Elizabeth was completely mistress of perspective. 
Her musical talents were very uncommon: she 
played remarkably well both on the Piano-Forte and 
Harp, but she had lost her instruments. The li- 
brary, of which she so well knew the value, was 
gone. Always averse to large parties, and with no 
taste for dissipation, she readily agreed to a plan of 
employment proposed by my Mother, and we en- 
tered on a regular course of history, both ancient 
and modern. At other times we studied Shake- 
speare, Milton, and some other English poets, as 
well as some of the Italians. We took long walks, 
and often drew from nature. We read with great 
attention the whole of the New Testament, Seeker's 
Lectures on the Catechism, and several other books 
on the same important subjects. After my Mother 
retired to rest, we usually studied the stars, and read 
Bonycastle's Astronomy, which reminds me of the 
following circumstance :— Elizabeth told me one 



[ 24 ] 

evening that she did not perfectly understand what 
is said in Bonycastle, page 91, of Kepler's celebra- 
ted calculation, by which he discovered that the 
squares of the periods of the planets are in proportion 
to the cubes of their distances. She wanted to know 
how to make use of this rule, but I confessed my 
inability to assist her. When I came down to 
breakfast at nine the next morning, I found her with 
a folio sheet of paper almost covered with figures ; 
and I discovered that she rose as soon as it was light, 
and by means of Bonycastle's Arithmetic, had learnt 
to extract the cube root, and had afterwards calcu- 
lated the periods and distances of several planets, so 
as clearly to shew the accuracy of Kepler's rule, and 
the method of employing it. In such pursuits as I 
have mentioned, I could accompany her ; but in 
others she had a much better assistant in our mu- 
tual friend, MissH — , who, fortunately for us, spent 
four months in our neighbourhood, and was the 
companion of our studies and our pleasures. She 
led Miss S — to the study of the German language, 
of which she was afterwards particularly fond. 
She assisted her in Botanical and other pursuits, as 
well as in different branches of the Mathematics. I 
do not know when Elizabeth began to learn Spanish,- 



C 25 ] 

but it was at an earlier period than that of which I 
am now speaking; when she was with us, she 
seemed to read it without difficulty, and some hours 
every morning before breakfast were devoted to 
these studies. She acquired some knowledge of the 
Arabic and Persian languages during the following 
winter, when a very fine dictionary and grammar, in 
the possession of her Brother, led her thoughts to 
Oriental literature. She began to study Latin and 
Greek, in the year 1794, when Mr. C — 's excellent 
library, and improving conversation, opened to her 
an inexhaustible fund of information. She studied 
Hebrew from my Mother's Bible, with the assist- 
ance of Parkhurst ; but she had no regular instruc- 
tion in any language except French. Her love of 
Ossian led her to acquire some knowledge of the 
Erse language, but the want of books made it im- 
possible for her to pursue that study as far as she 
wished. Some extracts from her letters will shew 
how she was employed during the following years. 

" August, 1793. 

" We never take a pleasant walk, or read any 
thing interesting, but some one says, e I wish Miss 
H — were here,' and you may be sure that nobody 



[ 26 ] 

contradicts it. Besides all other reasons for this 
wish, I want to shew you every pretty passage I 
meet with in German, which I do not like half so 
well, now that I have no one to enjoy it with me. 
I have read none since you left me, except two books 

of Dr. R 's, Der Golden Spiegel, which is an 

imitation of an Eastern Tale, by way of making 
dissertations upon government. It is entertaining, 
and there is an account of a happy valley, that 
makes one long to live in it. The other book is 
Wiesscri's Poems, some of which are very pretty." 

" October 15. 
" I have a nice collection of German books, which 
Miss B — has borrowed for me. There is the Iliad, 
which seems to me a very good translation. I think 
the sound is more regularly fine than Pope's, and 
some of the descriptions of nature are much superior 
to his; but the tender sentiments^ which the learned 
say are not in the original, are not to be traced in 
the German translation. In that respect we shall 
all prefer Pope. There is the Messiah, which I am 
reading a second time with more pleasure than the 
first. A very pretty collection of Poems by differ- 
ent persons ; a Novel ; and a book of Plays; so you 



[ 27 ] 

see I am well furnished at present. I wish I had 
you to enjoy them with me. 

f( My favourite study just now is Algebra ; and I 
find by Saunderson, that if we had consulted proper 
books; we should never have spent so much time in 
measuring squares and circles ; for though by the 
means we used, (which were perfectly right,) it may 
be brought inconceivably near, it is- impossible to 

prove it mathematically exadt. For example: 

I hope you will not have the head-ache when this 
arrives, or you will wish my Mathematics at Bath 
again; but when I have learnt any thing that we 
used to puzzle about together, I am never easy till 
you know it." 

u November 17. 
" Send me no Latin quotations, for I understand 
them only when the translation comes with them. 
I have just finished Klopstock's Messiah, which I 
have been reading again, as I did not above half 
understand it before. There is more of it than there 
was in Miss — 's, which was, I believe, only fifteen 
books. This is in twenty-two books, and is con- 
tinued to the Ascension, with many hymns and 
songs afterwards. He supposes at that time a day 



[ 28 ] 

of judgment, and that Abandona was pardoned. Pray 

inform Miss of this, for I remember hearing 

her regret his fate/* 

" Jprill, 1794. 
ce I have not thought of you the less because I 
have been too idle to write. You know it is an old 
fault of mine, and it will only be wasting your time 
and my own to make an apology as long as my 
silence. I am very rich in German books just now, 
for Dr. R — , who has a great many, has given me 
the entre of his library, to take whatever I like. I 
have got your friend Kliest, which I think delightful; 
Halie^s Poems ; and Zimmerman's Einsamkeit, 
which pleases me more than almost any book I ever 
read. How much am I obliged to you for teaching 
me German ! I assure you I never read a beautiful 
passage, without thinking it is to you I owe the 
pleasure I enjoy, and wishing you could enjoy it 
with me; for after all it is but a selfish sort of thing 
to read merely to entertain oneself. There are some 
ideas in Zimmerman upon a future state very like 
your book.* I envy you extremely in reading Virgil. 
I must learn Latin some day or other. At present 
* Essay on the Happiness of the Life to Come. 



[ 29 ] 

I am puzzling at Persian and Arabic, and I mean 
to begin Hebrew. I get on least with Spanish, for 
I have been able to meet with only one book since I 
read Don Quixotte, which was the History of the 
Incas, by Garcillasso dela Vega. T was very much 
pleased with it, though it is very long, and in some 
parts tedious. I wish I had your patience to trans- 
late from one language to anotier, for I believe it is 
the only way of being perfect h any ; but I succeed 
so ill in writing, of any kind, that I never like to 
attempt it. I met with a thought in Haller, which 
was new to me, and pleased ne much; but, per- 
haps, if you have met with it lefore, it may not 
strike you as it did me. Speakirg of the weakness 
of reason without revelation, he ays, 

« Vernunft kan, wie der mond, ein trostder dunkeln Zeiten, 
«* Uns durch die braune nacht mit halbe^n schimmer leiten; 
" Der warheit morgen-roht zeigt erst dir wahre welt, 
" Warm Gottes sonnen-licht durch unseidammrung fallt."* 

* " Reason, like the moon, a consolatun in darkness, can 
guide us with its faint rays through the ctaky night. The 
morning dawn of truth shews the real word, when the light 
of the sun breaks through our twilight." — Halkr on Reason, 
Superstition, and Infidelity. 



C 30 ] 

" I forgot to thank you for all the trouble you took 
about Canada. It was very kind indeed, and there- 
fore like yourself; but [ am sorry to say it was to no 
purpose, for it is entirely given up 5 much against 
my will, for I was delighted with the idea, and 
wished excessively to go, but I despair of ever seeing 



" London, Feb. 1795. 
<( I believe I told you I should learn Latin before 
I saw you next, and Shirley* was a very good place 
for it, I therefore b3gan soon after I went there ; and 
I have read Caesar! Commentaries, Livy, and some 
volumes of Cicero, amongst which I almost wish 
the letters to his fiends had not been, for they shew 
his whole character to be so much put on, that they 
have let him d<wn many degrees in my opinion. 
As to Persian, til my books are at Bath, so that I 
shall most probibly forget the little I knew when I 

* The seat o J — C — , esq; where Miss S— spent 
some time in theiatter part of the year 1794, and much of 
the following year. To this gentleman, and to his lady 
who is nearly rekted to Mr. S — , the family always acknow- 
ledge the highe t obligations. — See Mrs* $-— to Dr. R — , 
In the yippendix, 



[ 31 1 

saw you last. I have met with neither German nor 
Spanish books; so that if it were not for Latin, I 
should be quite in despair. I am very impatient to 
begin Virgil. 

"March 11, 1795. 
ie I have just finished the second book of the 
Georgics, and was particularly delighted with the 
last eighty-four verses. The description of the 
storm in the first book I think is very fine." 

" Shirley, July 28, 1795. 
" I think as you do of Emilia Galotti. Die 
Rauber I never saw. Indeed I have scarcely read 
any German or Spanish since I left Bath. I must 
tell you that I cannot help being quite reconciled to 
Cicero. I have gone through all that I can find 
here of his works, and am so fully persuaded that a 
man who could write as he does, could have no great 
faults, that I must, with your leave, forgive his little 
ones. If you have not yet met with it, only read, as 
a sample, the first book of his Tusculan disputations, 
' de contemnenda morte,' and I think you will agree 
with me, that with the addition of Christianity to 
confirm his suppositions, and rectify a few mistakes 



[ 32 ] 

in them, and the knowledge of the true state of the 
universe, no doctrine can be more perfect than his ; 
and that half the modern books on the subject: might 
have been spared, had the writers of them, before 
they began, read this dialogue. 

" I have just finished Clarendon's History of the 
Rebellion, which Miss B — long ago desired me to 
read. It is extremely interesting and instructive. 
Here is another of her favourites, Spencer, which I 
once gave up in despair, but which I am very glad 
I have read, for I am charmed with it, and I think 
some of the lesser poems are even superior to the 
Fairy Queen. We have read Mr. Gisborne's book* 
aloud, and all the party was extremely pleased 
with it. 

" I have got a new Atlas of all the remarkable 
fixed stars that are visible to us, without the figures. 
I would shew it to you, if you would meet me on 
the wings of Pegasus, or any other convenient place 
you will appoint in the upper regions, for it does 
not seem probable that we should soon see each 
other in these below. Have you read Horace yet ? 
Pray do not lose a moment; he is indeed delight- 
ful." 

* On the Duties of Man. 



[ 33 ] 

« Shirley ', October 5, 1795. 
ff I have not seen Gellert. Oberon I have read, 
and was much pleased with some parts of it. It is 
a little in the style of Ariosto. Pray tell Miss — 
(since she does me the honour to enquire,) that of 
Spencer's lesser poems I was most pleased with 
Astrophel, some of the Eclogues, particularly Janu- 
ary and June, and the Hymn in honour of Beauty, 
which is as well written as if he had studied Lavater* 
In have just finished Froissard, which, though rather 
tedious, I found very entertaining, and in a much 
pleasanter style than most of the modern French 
writers. Immediately before this great undertaking, 
I read the Memoirs of Petrarch, which made a very 
good line of history, containing the whole of the* 
fourteenth century. With this book I was exces- 
sively pleased. It is impossible not to love Petrarch, 
if it were only for crying when his father threw 
Cicero and Virgil into the fire. He was a passion- 
ate admirer of Cicero, and I think a strong resem- 
blance may be traced between their characters, tho 5 
the circumstances in which they lived were so 
different. You see in both the same love of glory, 
the same patriotism, the same high opinion of him- 
self, which he endeavours to conceal from others, 

D 



[ 34 ] 

perhaps even from himself, by a cloak of humility. 
You discover in each an equal warmth of friendship; 
and I cannot help thinking that if Cicero had met 
with Laura, or Petrarch been consul in the flou- 
rishing times of the Roman Republic, the former 
would have been the poet, and the latter the orator. 
I hope I have improved a little in Botany this sum- 
mer as w r ell as you." 

"March 3, 1796. 
x< Have you seen Mason's new volume of Poems? 
There are some very beautiful things in it. I have 
been feasting lately on German poetry. The GraiF 
von Stolberg ; Holly ; Matthison; and a translation 
of Young. I have been much pleased with Zim- 
merman's Nationalstoltz. My ears are stunned, and 
my patience exhausted, by the ridiculous and con- 
tradictory reports that are incessantly vociferated on 
all sides of me. No one can speak or write of any 
thing but the French. If they have not murdered or 
enslaved our persons, they have at least taken com- 
plete possession of our minds, and banished every 
idea of which they are not the object. As you 
probably hear as much, and are as tired of them as 
myself, I will only assure you, that they have not 



C 35 J 

driven from my brain the idea of you, nor from my 
heart the tender affection with which I am, &c." 

On the 22d of May 1796, Mrs. and Miss S— set 
out for Ireland, where they, stayed only three or four 
months. The following letter was written the day 
before Elizabeth left Bath. The dejection expressed 
in it was occasioned by sorrows of a very different 
description from the loss of fortune. 

"Bath, May 21 . 

" My lazy fit has lasted so long this time, that 
I dare not venture to make any apology for it, and 
scarcely should I dare to write again, but that I 
cannot resolve to quit this island without once more 
assuring my dear friend, that my esteem and affec- 
tion are not in the least abated by absence, and that 
I love her exactly as much as if I had told her so an 
hundred times over. 

" My mother and I set off to-morrow morning 

for Ireland. Lady and Miss have sent 

us a most obliging invitation to their house, and I 
hope we shall pass a day and a night there. Do 
you not envy us this visit ? If we could carry you 
and our beloved friend with us, it would be more 

D 2 



[ 36 ] 

than earthly happiness. On the whole I am ex- 
tremely pleased with the idea of our expedition ; for 
besides my natural love of rambling, and of seeing 
and knowing every shing that is worth the trouble, 
I am weary of the world. To quit it is not in my 
power; but in leaving England, I shall leave the 
only world with which I am acquainted, the scene 
of all our miseries. You never before heard me 
complain of miseries. I never before had any to 
complain of. Against this negative pleasure in 
quitting this country, is to be set the positive pain of 
leaving some very dear friends; but I seldom see 
you and Miss B — , and I shall still have the con- 
solation of loving you, I shall leave my K — with 
great regret, but we must learn to bear it. We are 
happy in the thoughts of seeing my Father, who 
has been very uncomfortably situated during the 
last year. We talk of returning in the autumn, and 
I am glad it is talked of, because it makes my Mo- 
ther quit England with less reluctance than she 
otherwise would; but I strongly suspect that we shall 
either take up our abode in Ireland, or go abroad 
wherever the regiment may happen to be ordered ; 
f but this is written in the book of fate, and no 
human eye can read it.' I am grieved at going 



C 37 ] 

from Bath just before you come. I have not seen 
you these two years, and I may be drowned, I may 
never return, I may never see you again till e the 
life to come/ By the by, have you read Lavater's 
Gcheime Tagebuck, S(c. ? There is in it a quota- 
tion from a sermon by his friend Pfenningen, so 
exactly like your little book, that I wanted you to 
read it with me. I can give you no account of my 
studies, but that I have read nothing in the last 
half year. My Mother and I are going to take leave 
of our dear Miss B — . I wish you were here to 
comfort her, she wants it sadly ; I hope constantly 
to hear of her from you. Do not forget me; and 
be assured whatever changes may happen to me, of 
fortune, or habitation, my sincere affection for my 
Mary will never change. Adieu, perhaps for ever!" 

The visit at more than answered the expect- 
ation of my friends, and the very obliging manner 
in which they were received, was highly gratifying 
to me. I had a letter from Miss S — on this 
subject;, which I particularly regret; but it was 
destroyed with many others. Mrs. and Miss S— 
were much pleased with what they saw of Ireland^ 
and very grateful for many civilities received therej 



[ 38 ] 

but I have nothing written at that time except the 
following short letter to Miss H— , written from 
the county of Sligo. 



"Augusts, 1796. 
<c I have not time to say half what I think and 
feel in answer to your last letter, my dearest Mary ; 
I will call you so since you like it, though I had 
forgot that I was ever so impertinent to do it before. 
I frequently wish for you and our beloved friend, to 
make you wander through a valley, between moun- 
tains tossed together in all the wild and rugged forms 
imaginable, with an hundred cascades dashing from 
their summits, and forming a beautiful lake at the 
bottom; to shew you the fine effe&s of light and 
shade on the hills when the sun shines ; and when 
he does not, the clouds hiding their heads, descend- 
ing half way down them, and sometimes entirely 
blotting them out of the landscape; then breaking 
away by degrees, and ascending like smoke. I never 
before knew so well what Ossian meant by the thick 
mist of the valley, and the ragged skirts of a cloud 
as it sails slowly over the dark heath. I often think 
J see the grey cloud of which his father's robe i§ 



[ 39 ] 

made. I hope we may meet in the winter; but 
sometimes I almost despair. However, I shall not 
be less in one place than another, your tenderly 
affectionate friend." 

Mrs. and Miss S — returned to Bath in October^ 
and my Mother, who was extremely ill, received 
from them every comfort which friendship could 
bestow. Elizabeth spent part of the following 
winter with us. Perhaps the awful scene she then 
witnessed, might give a peculiarly serious turn to a 
mind which was always disposed to deep reflection, 
and fervent piety. The following reflections are 
taken from her little pocket-books, and were written 
in 1796 and 1797. 

f* I find it a very good method to write down my 
thoughts as they occur, for an idea often strikes me, 
which, turning to something else, I forget imme- 
diately; but considering it as much as is necessary 
to write it down, makes me more acquainted with 
the subject, and makes my thoughts more my own* 
For want of some such plan, I see people dreaming 
away their lives in inactivity of mind, without form- 
ing any opinions of their own, till from paying no 



[ 40 ] 

attention to their thought's, they come not to think 
at all." 

6C When we contemplate the ways of Providence, 
we are like a person unskilled in painting, who looks 
at a half-finished picture; he is immediately struck 
with the want of harmony in the colouring, and the 
improper disposition of light and shade, and thinks 
he shews his wisdom by finding faults in the whole 
plan, and in the execution of every part; but let him 
wait till it is finished, and he will then be forced to 
acknowledge that every stroke has contributed to the 
beauty of the whole, and that what he considered as 
defects, now appear the chief beauties of the piece. 
Perhaps there is none but an artist equal to the 
painter of the picture, who can, before it is finished, 
imagine what effect will be produced; unless then we 
can suppose the creature to be equal to the Creator^ 
and the picture to rise up against the painter, let us 
not presume to call in question the ordinances of 
God, but wait till his plans are accomplished, when 
we shall be convinced that c whatever is, is right!' 

. " Is the capacity of man finite ? Is God infinite ? 
How can the finite comprehend the infinite ? 



C * 1 

" The pity of the world appears to be very much 
misplaced ; it is entirely withdrawn from those who 
have fallen into misfortune through their own fault, 
and most liberally bestowed on the virtuous unfor-* 
tunate ; but the virtuous have no need of pity. They 
never can be miserable, whatever may befal them; 
and it is their place to look down with pity on the 
wicked, whether glorying in the smiles of fortune, 
or despairing at her frowns." 

6C I do not see that the failure of intellect which 
we sometimes observe in old people, and in young 
ones in some cases of sickness, is any argument 
against the immortality of the soul. We are igno- 
rant how the soul will act after its separation from 
the body; but we know that during their union, 
neither can do any thing without the assistance of 
the other; therefore, when the faculties decay, we 
are not to suppose that the soul is injured, but that 
the organs, whatever they are, by which it commu- 
nicates with the body, and by which ideas are pre-* 
sented to it, have sustained some damage. As, if 
a man become blind, we do not say that his soul 
is changed, but that the organ by which images 
were presented to it, is injured; and accordingly, if 



[ « ] 

his eyes are cured, the soul is just as able to distin- 
guish objects as ever. In the same manner, the 
sick person, whose nerves (or whatever it is on which 
the soul immediately acts) have recovered their 
tone, is able to think, and speak, and understand, 
as formerly. The workman is not in fault, but 
some part of his machine is out of order." 

€t The most difficult vice to conquer, is pride; I 
mean a high idea of our own merits, and a spirit of 
rebellion. This came in Eve's way; she fell, and 
perhaps there is not one of her posterity who would 
not have done the same." 

" Reason is the most unreasonable of all things, 
for without common sense to guide it, it never knows 
where to stop." 

" The most inconsistent thing in the world is to 
expect consistency of man, at the same time that 
we know him to be entirely dependent on circum- 
stances. What we have most earnestly wished, is 
often proved by events to have been the worst thing, 
that could happen to us. We do, and must, change 
our opinions according to every circumstance that 



[ 43 1 

occurs, unless we could know all things, and take 
in the present, past, and future, at a glance. " 

(( It is surprising how the opinions of the same 
person change in the course of a few years. It is 
therefore improving, as well as amusing, to write 
down the thoughts that occur, in order to look them 
over after some time, and see in what respecls I 
may have advanced, in what receded, and rectify 



" I have no idea of heaping up money, or of any 
pleasure in saying so much is mine ; it is not mine 
till I use it. I shall therefore, whenever I have any, 
lay it out as I find proper occasions ; trusting to that 
Providence which has never suffered me to want, 
even when I had no probable means of subsisting, 
to supply me when I stand in need. Never refuse 
to give to-day, lest you should want to-morrow." 

" How light are all the troubles of this world to 
those who value every thing it contains according to 
its real worth ! They may appear insensible to those 
who reckon by a different standard, but they can 
bear even this imputation, for they know the value 



[ 44 ] 

of human applause. How happy should we be, if 
we could always feel, as we sometimes think!" 

" I cannot bear to hear people say, e such a per- 
son did me favour, but I have returned it, and am 
no longer obliged to him/ If any one does me a 
favour, without the least expectation or wish of a 
reward, though it should afterwards be in my power 
to do ten times more for that person, I can never 
repay the original obligation, which from its nature 
does not admit of any recompense, but remains for 
«ver in its full force." 

6< One great cause of the republican spirit which 
prevails at present, appears to have been a false prin- 
ciple in education, that it is necessary to convince 
a child by reason before you expect him to obey. 
Now reason, being the faculty of comparing ideas 
already presented to the mind, cannot exist in a 
child, to whom few or no ideas have been presented ; 
and no one was ever convinced by the reasoning of 
another. It is therefore impossible to convince 
him; and if he be suffered to do as he please till he 
be capable of reasoning, it is a great chance if his 
understanding be not so warped by the practice of 



[ « ] 

evil, that he mistake it for good; and it is most pro- 
bable that he may have contracted such a habit of 
disobedience, as not willingly to submit to the laws 
of his country, or even to those of his God." 

" The progress of understanding is like learning 
to play on a musical instrument. Education does 
not create it, any more than a music-master creates, 
fingers, it only gives us the power of using them 
rightly. Give an instrument to a person who has 
never heard music, and who is ignorant of the prin- 
ciples of it, he will probably produce some sound, 
but it will be discordant and without meaning. 
This I should suppose the state of a man who has 
always lived on a desolate island by himself. He 
will have found the use of his bodily organs, but 
will scarcely have discovered his mental faculties. 
On the contrary, a person who has been taught the 
principles of music, makes himself perfectly ac- 
quainted with them by practice, till frpm playing the 
music of others, he at length composes new on tha 
same principles ; as he learns to use his understand- 
ing first by reading and hearing the opinions of others, 
and then forms his own. Thus the soul and body 
are reciprocally as the musician and the instrument." 



1 



[46 ] 

" I find nothing so effe&ual in abating self-con- 
ccit as to look on people who evidently have quite as 
high an opinion of themselves in any given respect, 
as I have, and to see that they are mistaken. It is 
very possible I may be so too." 

ce It is the fashion now to consider the abilities 
of women as being on an equality with those of men. 
T do not deny that there may be many women w T hose 
abilities, and still more their powers of conversation, 
are superior to those of the generality of men; but 
there never was among women a Milton, a New- 
ton, &c." 

ce The more talents and good qualities we have 
received, the more humble we ought to be, because 
we have the less merit in doing right/ ' 

" How very narrow are all the limits of the 
human understanding ! Our situation in this world 
is like that of a person groping about in the dark. 
"Whatever path of science we turn into, we meet 
with no obstacles that may not easily be surmounted, 
we flatter ourselves that we have made great disco- 
veries, and think there will be no end of our pro- 



t V ] 

gress till we perfectly understand every thing; when 
on a sudden we knock our heads against the mud 
walls of our habitation, and are beat back by the 
blow to the centre of ignorance from whence we 



" No event which I thought unfortunate has 
ever happened to me, but I have been convinced, at 
some time or other, that it was not a misfortune, 
but a blessing. I can never then in reason com- 
plain of any thing that happens, because, I am per- 
suaded it is permitted for some good purpose/' 

"lam surprised, on observing my thoughts, to 
find how very rarely they are employed in any thing 
worth thinking about, how seldom they are even 
common sense. Conscience tells me that a great 
part of my life is wasted in foolish imaginations and 
idle dreams." 

ce We cannot have a more striking proof of the 
incapacity of man, than the methods he takes to hide 
from himself his own ignorance. When he meets 
with any thing in nature which he can neither ex- 
plain nor understand, he invents a name, by which 



[ 48 ] 

he imposes on the world with an appearance oi 
wisdom; and sometimes even fancies himself wise, 
because he has not acknowledged his ignorance. For 
instance, we pretend to know what it is that moves 
the planets in their orbits, and we call it attraction ; 
though it is plain we are no wiser than if the word 
had never been used. We meet with a fossil -of 
which we cannot account for the formation; a plant 
or an animal differing from any we have before seen, 
we say it is a lusus nature. Some person is 
affected with a disorder we do not understand, it is 
immediately said to be nervous. If two or three of 
our acquaintance are affected in the same manner, 
it is a disorder that goes about, it is in the air; 
though perhaps the air has no more to do with it 
than any of the other elements; and each person, 
after uttering one of these wise sentences, sits down 
satisfied that he has completely explained his subject* 

" It is not surprising that so few, so very few, 
geniuses appear in the world, if we consider how 
many circumstances are necessary to their produc- 
tion: for it is not enough that nature has given a 
bold and enterprising spirit, capable of the greatest 
undertakings, if the shell it inhabits is rooted to one 



L 49 J 

spot, and compelled to labour for daily bread : it is 
not enough that she has created a poet, if the mind, 
full of ardour and enthusiasm, be doomed to plod the 
dull round of trade. She has in vain bestowed the 
faculty of deep investigation, and of tracing the hid- 
den causes of things, on one, who, in the constant 
hurry of acYion, finds no leisure for meditation ; or 
given to a woman a spirit of curiosity able to make 
Useful discoveries in every branch of science, which, 
from a narrow prejudice, must be confined to the 
affairs of her neighbours. Thus I am persuaded 
genius often exists, but lies concealed, sometimes 
even from the possessor of it, for want of occasions 
to call it forth." 

ec They are most vain, who say they have no 
ranity: for no one ever thought that the want of va- 
nity he boasts of, proceeded from want of merit ; he 
rather thinks that he excels all mankind in having 
a mind superior to vanity; and what is this opinion 
but the summit of vanity? " 

"The greatest misfortune in the world is to 
have more learning than good sense. " 



[ 50 ] 

% Many people find fault with those who study 
languages, and say they study only words, and forget 
ideas; but those who do so never will learn any 
number of languages, for it is totally impossible to 
remember so great a number of words as is con- 
tained in one language without affixing ideas to 
them. The truth is, those who learn languages to 
any purpose, study ideas only, through the medium 
of words their signs. Unless we clearly understand 
the sign, we cannot comprehend the thing signified. 
Those who consider this matter at all, must acknow- 
ledge that there are very few words in the English 
language which have any meaning in English, but 
that they are chiefly derived from the Saxon, French, 
Latin, Greek; and those again from the Hebrew, 
and other Eastern languages. It follows therefore, 
that those only who understand all those languages, 
(perhaps many more might be added,) perfectly 
understand English; and those who are acquainted 
with none of them, speak the words they have learnt 
from custom, like a parrot, but without clearly un- 
derstanding the ideas which are meant to be con- 
veyed by them. The study of languages is therefore 
not only pleasing and profitable for the sake of read- 
ing the poetry, and other books which cannot be 



[ 51 ] 

translated ; but it gives a much higher relish for the 
beauties of our own language, by enabling us to feel 
the force of every expression, which a common 
reader passes over without observation. M 

" Those who know a little are very anxious to 
reform every thing ; those who know more, are 
convinced of the impossibility of compleat reform- 
ation, and therefore are inclined to leave every thing 
as they found it. Those who understand French, 
or Latin, or German, derive all English words from 
which ever of those languages they happen to 
be acquainted with, and endeavour to write and 
pronounce them accordingly, and certainly our 
language has suffered much from these pretended 
reformers. On the contrary, if they were to make 
themselves acquainted with all the languages above 
mentioned, they would probably discover that they 
had been mistaken in many of their etymologies. 
The English tongue is perhaps more mixed than any 
other, and its corruptions are chiefly owing to half- 
learned reformers. This reasoning is applicable to 
all schemes of general reformation. We had better 
not meddle with what we do not understand \ and if 

E 2 



t 52 ] 

we put the question home, what is it that we do 
understand?" 

cc It appears to me probable, that in the original 
janguage, all the nouns, and the roots of verbs, 
(which were the third person singular of the prete- 
rite,) were monosyllables, perhaps consisting of not 
more than two letters; and that from thence the 
different tenses of the verbs, and the derivations of 
the nouns, were formed, by the addition of a letter 
before or after. The confusion at Babel might 
consist in some men's being deprived of the power 
of pronouncing certain letters." 

"From the little information I can collecl: by 
tracing languages towards their source, it appears 
probable that when the inhabitants of the earth 
quarrelled at Babel, and dispersed in consequence, 
Ham turned, as is generally allowed, towards Africa, 
where Egypt was afterwards called by his name, and 
by that of his son Misraim. Shem remained in 
the western parts of Asia, and spread from thence 
over Europe. This opinion is founded on the very 
ftrong traces of the Persian language which yet re- 
main in the Celtic and all European tongues, not 



( 53 ] 

excepting Greek and Latin ; though the modern 
Persian, with which I compare them, is itself de- 
rived from the Pehlevi, the ancient language of Per- 
sia, which probably had a much greater affinity with 
the Celtic. Noah says, in the 9th chapter of Gene- 
sis, c May God extend Japhet, and may he inhe- 
rit the tents of Shem." In the 10th chapter it is 
said, that the islands were peopled by the descend- 
ants of Japhet. From these circumstances I con-^ 
elude that the family of Japhet went eastward 
from Babel, till, coming to the sea, some went over 
it to the islands within sight, which form the East- 
ern Archipelago; and others followed the coast 
northwards, till they came to some point from 
whence they could see America. Thither some of 
them went; while others spread themselves west- 
ward, and these people I take to be the barbarians 
of the north, who afterwards over-ran all Europe, 
and who were the same as the wandering Tartars, 
their brethren, now are. Thus the prophecy is ful- 
filled, for Japhet is indeed extended, and at this day 
inhabits the tents of Shem all over Europe. This 
theory seems to me to derive great force from the 
similarity of manners between the wandering tribes 
of the north, the Tartars, and the Americans; for 



[ 54 ] 

though some nations of America, from a long resi- 
dence in one place, have acquired a degree of civili- 
zation, yet there is always a tradition of their having 
been in a wild state. It is reasonable to suppose the 
descendants of Japhet, inconstantly travelling about, 
would lose all the knowledge they had gained from 
Noah, except such as was absolutely necessary for 
their subsistence. We find the descendants of Shem 
alone, who remained nearly stationary, and the 
Egyptians and Chinese who settled soon after they 
]eft Babel, had leisure to cultivate the sciences 
before the elements of them were lost. From my 
ignorance of the Chinese language, I am at a loss 
to determine whether the inhabitants of China are 
descended from Shem or Japhet; the position of the 
country would incline one to believe the latter, 
though their manners, so unlike their Tartar neigh- 
bours, seem to contradict it; yet this objection may 
be done away, by supposing them to settle imme- 
diately after the dispersion, which appears probable 
from their reckoning the cycle of sixty years from a 
period so remote as 2277 B. C. which answers ex*- 
actly to the building of Babel. Their language 
consists entirely of monosyllables, which, with their 
known dislike of innovation in every thing, inclines 



[ 55 ] 

me to think that it may perhaps differ less than any 
other from the original language, or at least from 
that of Noah." 

"We laugh at Erostratus for setting fire to the 
temple of Diana at Ephesus, that his name might be 
remembered; but however ridiculous and foolish his 
ambition might be, it was the same which has 
always influenced and annoyed mankind. Even so 
early as an hundred years after the deluge, we have 
a great instance of it recorded, in all men's joining 
in building the tower of Babel, ( to make themselves 
a name.' Since that time to what end has Alexan- 
der, and all the other conquerors of antiquity, waded 
through blood, if not to be talked of, and that their 
names might be remembered? Even amongst those 
we call barbarians, the warrior rushes headlong into 
danger, that the song of the Bard may rise in his 
praise, and his deeds of valour be remembered. Nor 
is the mischief of this passion confined to blood- 
shed. Men will overturn all the principles of the 
world, and publish the most extravagant doclrines, 
merely to be talked of. It is surely impossible that 
Hume could believe his own system ; he was only 
voracious of literary fame, The same might be said 



I 56 ] 

of Voltaire and his associates. It was the vanity of 
advancing something new, and making a revolution 
in the opinions of men, which prompted them in 
their writings. The passion was given to excite us 
to good deeds; but when men have no disposition 
to distinguish themselves by what. is good, they fix 
on some splendid evil, which will be the most uni- 
versally felt, and consequently the most talked of. 
To this cause must in a great measure be attributed 
the variety of opinions which exist in the world on 
every subject; some of them so very absurd that it 
is impossible to suppose their authors could believe 
in them. Perhaps he thinks himself the cleverest 
man who can persuade the world to believe the most 
improbable fi&ion." 



What I have here transcribed, and much that 
is irrecoverably lost ; the acquisitions in science 
which I have endeavoured to trace out, as well as 
the virtues, to which I should in vain endeavour to 
do justice, were comprised in the short period of a 
life not yet extended beyond the twenty-first year 5 
and many of those years were spent without a home, 
and\vithout a library, and under the pressure of 



[ 57 1 

afflictions, which, however nobly supported, 'taught 
even youth and innocence to mourn.* Such was 
the life, which, when compared with the standard 
ofperfedtion at which she aimed, appeared in het 
own eyes to call for the reflections that conclude 
the little book I have just transcribed, and which 
are dated January 1, 1798. 

" Being now arrived at what is called years of 
discretion, and looking back on my past life with 
shame and confusion, when I recollect the many 
advantages I have had, and the bad use I have made 
of them, the hours I have squandered, and the op- 
portunities of improvement I have neglected 5 — when 
I imagine what with those advantages I ought to be, 
and find myself what I am; — I am resolved to en- 
deavour to be more careful for the future, if the 
future be granted me ; to try to make amends for 
past negligence, by employing every moment I can 
command to some good purpose ; to endeavour to 
acquire all the little knowledge that human nature 
is capable of on earth, but to let the word of God 
be my chief study, and all others subservient to it; 
to model myself, as far as I am able, according to 
the Gospel of Chkistj to be content while my trial 



[ 58 ] 

lasts, and when it is finished to rejoice, trusting m 
the merits of my Redeemer. I have written these 
resolutions to stand as a witness against me, in case 
I should be inclined to forget them, and to return to 
my former indolence and thoughtlessness, because I 
have found the inutility of mental determinations. 
May God grant me strength to keep them!"* 



In the summer of the year 1798, Miss S — was 
with her family at Conway, from whence the two 
iiext letters were written to Miss H — . 

" Conway, May 26, 1798. 
" We are all very well and very comfortable now, 
remembering our friends only as we ought, and as I 
trust we always shall. T wish I were sure that you 

* Of this paper Mrs. S — says, " I firmly believe this 
prayer was accepted, for I do not recollect any instance in 
which she could justly be accused of either indolence or 
thoughtlessness, except on the subject of her health ; on that 
point she trusted too much to the strength of a naturally- 
good constitution ; and had so little confidence in human 
skill, that she neglected such means in the commencement of 
feer last illness, as in all probability would haveremoved it." 



[ 59 ] 

are equally comfortable, but knowing your contented 
disposition, I am inclined to think you are. I think 
I am content; and yet to be sure I should like to 
have you here, and explore with you all the dark 
winding passages and broken stair- cases of this 
beautiful Castle. There is one of the towers that 
would make the nicest dwelling in the world. I am 
sure you would wish to inhabit it. It stands on a 
rock overhanging the river, which is more properly 
an arm of the sea, and commands the finest view 
imaginable. It consists of three circular rooms one 
over the other; in the second of which there is a 
semi-circular niche with a beautiful roof of groined 
arches, supported by pillars, with a seat all round, 
capable of containing five or six people, and three 
windows looking on the river and its beautiful banks. 
To all this fairy castle, there is nothing wanting but 
the possibility of getting at it, for the timbers are 
entirely gone, and I pine in vain to get into the 
little niche. It certainly would be very snug, filled 
exactly as one would wish; but any place would do r 
so filled, therefore let us be content at the foot of 
the Tower. 

"I am glad our dear Miss B — is so happy at her 
Tower. We have so quick communication with 



[ 60 3 

her, that it scarcely seems as if we were separated* 
Perhaps we are preparing by degrees for a more 
lasting separation from all our friends; but our fate 
is still uncertain. We must make the best of the 
present, and let the future shift for itself. I never 
felt such hot weather in May as we have here \ but 
the air is uncommonly soft as well as clear, and in 
the evenings we take delightful walks, and find great 
use for our sketch-books. There is another cir- 
cumstance that would please you, we meet with a 
great variety of beautiful plants 3 particularly, the 
rlittle burnet rose grows in tufts on the mountains, 
in the marshes, and almost every where. We find 
here, indeed, every thing we wish for, except a few 
old friends. Our books are not arrived, but that 
is no misfortune, for I never find time to read* 
You will wonder what we do, and really I cannot 
very well tell, except rambling about to take views, 
and finishing them a little when we return home. 
I did flatter myself that here I should find time for 
every thing, but either I am a very bad contriver, or 
time does not stand still on any spot of the earth* 
If any one can catch him, I think it must be you, 
and I am certain you will make the best use of his 
company." 



I 61 ] 

" Conway, July 10, 179& 
c< We are grown such vagrants that it is not 
without many fruitless efforts that I sit down to 
write, even to you. I believe you will not doubt 
that my inclination makes that a lighter task than 
if I were addressing myself to any one else; but I 
am afraid, if we stay much longer amongst these 
delightful scenes, I shall grow completely and irre- 
coverably idle. It is not so with you, I dare sayj 
you are studying hard, and enjoying peace, quiet- 
ness, and leisure, in- your comfortable little retreat.. 
I believe I should envy you, if I were not where I 
am. T often recollect how we all groaned together 
at Bath, at the idea of the unpleasant summer we 
expected to pass in our different lots; and comparing 
that idea with the happiness we actually enjoy, (of 
which from our want of confidence we were so 
particularly undeserving,) I determine never again to 
be anxious about any thing; persuaded that all 
events are much better disposed than if I had the 
management of thenu You will think T am begin-, 
ning to philosophise, because there is nothing at 
present to disturb me ; but indeed I expect a very 
great misfortune. I will not think of it beforehand, 



t 62 J 

nor complain if it happen ; this is all my philosophy- 
can do. 

c f And now you must mount your old friend 
Pegasus, and go with me to the top of Snowdon to 
adore the rising sun. If you think your steed will 
not be tired, you may as well meet me at Caernar- 
von at five o'clock in the evening of the seventh of 
last month. You know, present, past, and future, 
are all one to your nine friends. Meet me then 
at Caernarvon, go with me into the Castle, ram- 
ble with me through dark passages without end or 
number, many more than I had time to go into, 
for they are galleries leading all round the walls, and 
round every tower, lighted only by small slits, in a 
wall twelve feet thick, for shooting arrows; so that 
many hundred soldiers might be employed in de- 
fending this castle, and be visible neither without 
jpor within. Ascend with me the Eagle Tower, 
and count if you can the number of steps, for in- 
deed I forgot to reckon, and having no book of 
travels from which to extract a journal, I cannot tell 
you. Hear Mr. C— , the barber, our cicerone, 
very learnedly refute the opinion of Mr. Pennant, 
that Edward II. was born in a little dark shabby 
room in the tower, and establish his own, — that that 



t <53 ] 

event certainly took place in the large circular room. 
on the first floor; acknowledging at the same time 
that the nurse might possibly retire occasionally 
with the child into Mr. Pennant's room. Come on 
into another little room, and if you chuse to be re- 
membered amongst fools, write your name upon the 
planks which still remain. Hear a long account 
from Mr. C — , of a boy being let down to the bot- 
tom of one of the towers, where there is water, to 
fetch up a dog that had been thrown there, and 
discovering an iron grate, through which he saw a,' 
subterraneous passage never yet explored; and hurry 
away from the Castle, wishing to spend days and 
weeks in examining it. 

te July 12. — I find myself so idle, and my travels 
so much more tedious in the recital than in the 
performance, that if I go on giving you a particular 
account I shall never finish. I will therefore tell 
you the rest of our adventures as briefly as possible. 
Quitting the castle we took a most delightful walk 
beside the river on which it stands, to observe the 
outside of the building, which, as beauty is but 
comparative, I being of the seel: of the Conwayites, 
do not admire. We returned to the Inn; — I sup- 
pose you are aware that we means my Mother, Mrs. 



[ 64 ] 

C. S— , and I, who set out together from Conway at 
nine the same morning; — well; we returned to the 
Inn, and eat an enormous supper. You know tra^ 
vellers always tell you how much they eat, but I in 
compassion will spare you the description of every 
dish, and how much was paid for it, because I have 
forgotten both ; however this supper is not men- 
tioned in vain, for indeed it was not eaten tn vain. 
As soon as we had accomplished it, we set off (about 
eleven at night) for the foot of Snowdon, and tra- 
velled eight miles through a fine mountainous coun- 
try by moonlight. Before one we arrived at a little 
hut where the guide lives, and after having him 
called up and loaded with a basket of bread and 
milk, and a tin box for specimens, we began our 
march at a quarter past one. The clouds were ga- 
thering over the mountains, and threatening us with 
either darkness or rain. We however escaped both, 
and were only amused with every variety they could 
give the landscape, by hiding, or half obscuring the 
moon, and by blotting out, now one mountain, and, 
now another, from our view; till about two o'clock, 
when the dawn began to appear, they covered the 
moon, and we saw her no more. We proceeded by 
a very easy assent over boggy ground till half-past 



[ 65 ] 

two, when coming suddenly to the top of the first 
range of hills, and meeting with a violent wind 
which blew from the .quarter where the sun was to 
rise, (for we ascended the mountain on the south- 
west side,) Mrs. G. S — was frightened, and seeing 
a very steep ascent before her, said she would sit 
down and wait for our return. My Mother said 
she would stay with her, and I proposed our all 
going back together ; but my Mother very kindly 
insisted on my proceeding. We therefore divided 
provisions, the ladies returned to the hut from which 
we had set out, and I went on with the guide, who 
could not speak a word of English. We steered 
our course more towards the south, and toiled up 
several mountains, in some parts covered with loose 
stones which had fallen from the broken summits, 
but in general overgrown with different sorts of 
moss, and a kind of short grass, mixed witrr im- 
mense quantities of the Gallium pusillum. I picked 
up a few other plants, but on the whole was disap- 
pointed in the botanical way, as I found very little 
that I had not before met with on the mountains 
in this neighbourhood; however, this is not the 
time of the year for mountain curiosities. I went 
on as fast as I could, without stopping, except now 



[ 66 } 

and then for a moment to look down on the moun- 
tains under my feet, as clouds passed over them, 
thinking each summit I saw before me was the last, 
and unable to gain any information from the guide 
to satisfy my impatience ; for I wished to be at the 
top before sun-rise, and pink clouds began to appear 
over the steep I was climbing. I also knew that 
the Ladies would be very impatient for my return, 
nor was I without anxiety on their account, as I was 
not sure that they would find their way back to the 
hut. These ideas occupied my mind all the way up, 
and if that deceitful but comforting lady — Hope, 
had not continually presented to me the range of 
hills I was ascending as the last step in ambition's 
ladder, I am not sure that, with all my eagerness to 
get to the top, I should not have turned back. I 
was debating this point very earnestly with myself^ 
in ascending an almost perpendicular green slope, 
when on a sudden I saw at my feet an immense 
chasm, all in darkness, and of a depth I cannot 
guess, certainly not less than an hundred feet; I 
should suppose much more. It answers in some 
respects to the idea I have formed of the crater of a 
volcano, but evidently is not that, as there is no 
mark of fire, the rock being composed, as it is in 



[ 67 ] 

general throughout this country, of a sort of slate. 
Nor does the mountain appear to have been thrown 
down, but the pit to have sunk in; which must pro- 
bably have been occasioned by subterranean waters, 
as there is water at the bottom of the pit, and 
the mountain is full of springs. You think you are 
now at the top, but you are mistaken. I am stand- 
ing indeed at the top of the abyss, but with a high 
rocky peak rising on each side of me, and descend- 
ing very near perpendicularly into the lake at the 
bottom. I have taken a rough sketch of one of 
these peaks, with the lake in the deepest shadow ; 
I am turning over my paper, (which the wind ren- 
ders very difficult,) in order to draw another ; — I look 
up, and see the upper part illuminated by a beauti- 
ful rose-coloured light, while the opposite part still 
casts a dark shade over its base, and conceals the sun 
itself from my view. If I were ready to jump into 
the pit with delight at first seeing it, my ecstacy now 
was still greater. The guide seemed quite delighted 
to see me so much pleased, and took care in descend- 
ing to lead me to the edge of every precipice which 
he had not done in going up. I however presently 
recollected that I was in a great hurry to get back, 
and set off along the brink of the cavity for the 

F 2 



E «b ;| 

highest .peak, where I arrived at a quarter past four, 
and saw a view of which it is impossible to form an 
idea from description. For many miles around it 
was composed of tops of mountains, of all the various 
forms that can be imagined; some appeared swim- 
ming in an ocean of vapour ; on others the clouds lay 
like a cap of snow, appearing as soft as down. They 
were all far below Snowdon, and I vvas enjoying the 
finest blue sky, and the purest air I ever breathed. 
The whole prospect was bounded by the sea, except 
to the east and south-east, and the greatest part of 
the land in those points was blotted out by clouds. 
The sun, however, rose so far towards the north- 
east as to be still hanging over the sea. I took a 
sketch of a small part of the mountains, with some 
of the little lakes which appear at their feet; sat 
down, for the first time, on a circle of stones which 
is built on the top of the hill, and made great havoc 
in the bread and milk, in which accomplishment 
the guide equalled, if not surpassed me; and at half- 
past four, almost frozen, I began to descend. My 
anxiety about my friends increased as I came near 
the spot where I had left them ; I made all possible 
haste; and found them safe in the hut at ten minutes 
past six;. It certainly would have been pleasanter 



[ 69 ] 

to have had more time, and some one to enjoy the 
expedition with me, but I am delighted that I have 
been, and would not for any thing give up the re- 
collection of the sublime scene. We got into the 
carriage immediately, and went four miles further to 
breakfast at a little village, from whence we walked 
to the Devil's-Bridge, which is fine almost beyond 
imagination; returned to Caernarvon to dinner, 
walked about there in the evening, and went to bed 
after thirty-nine hours of almost constant exercise. 
After this I think you will not take the trouble to 
enquire after my health ; it must be tolerably good. 
I intended writing a very short letter, but recollect- 
ing you would perhaps like some news from Snow-' 
don, I have been led on till I fear your patience is 
exhausted, though I have suppressed at least half of 
what I wish to say." 



Miss H — had sent the preceding letter to our 
mutual friend Mrs. De Luc; and Miss S— heard 
that it had been mentioned with approbation by an 
illustrious lady, to whom Mrs. De Luc had read it, 
This circumstance will explain the next letter. 



[ 70 ] 

" Shirley, March 25, 1799. 

cc Unworthy as you are of a line from my 
pen, I should be very glad of a few from your's, and 
therefore must condescend to ask for them ; trusting 
to the insipidity of all I have to say, that my letter 
will not be put in the trumpet of fame, and blown 
to the four quarters of the world ; for ill as you use 
your friends, I believe you have still sufficient re- 
gard for a certain M — H— , not to publish that she 
is the most treacherous of human beings ; and that 
she as much deserves to be taken up for treason as 
any of his Majesty's disloyal subjects. Now having 
vented my anger, I have nothing more to say, but 
that I should be very glad to hear from you. 

'.' I have got — I will not tell you what; a little, 
a very little book* always in my pocket. Mr. C— ■ 
has given it me. It is two books bound in one, and 
contains a vast deal of wisdom ; but you are a blab, 
and shall know no more. 

" If you want to consult the Syriac translation of 
the New Testament upon any particular passage, let 
me know. Mr. G — has a very fine one, printed 
in Hebrew characters, and the language is so very 

■* Sentential Rabbinorum. 



[ n ] 

like the Hebrew, and where it differs from that, so 
like the Arabic, that I can read it very well." 



"Mayl, 1799. 
" I suppose you conclude that I am c afraid of 
being tired with your answers;' but philosophers 
sometimes draw false conclusions, and this is one of 
them. I cannot enter into all the reasons for not 
writing sooner. It is enough that here I am, — while 
Mercury is vainly trying to get the better of Apollo, 
—here I am writing to you, instead of watching their 
conflict. It is true I have no very great merit in 
my forbearance, because I cannot see through the 
veil with which they have chosen to conceal them- 
selves ; therefore be not too vain in fancying I pre- 
fer your company to theirs. I imagine you are at 
this moment visiting your neighbour, Dr.^Herschell, 
and I desire you will communicate to me in this 
nether world all the information you collect in your 
nocturnal, as well as diurnal, peregrinations to the 
heavens. I shall envy, — no I will not say envy 
you, but I should like to go with you, as I should 
have liked to have had you with me in some of my 
late amusements, such as seeing the British Mu- 



[ n | 

seum, pictures and statues without end, and some 
very curious pieces of mechanism. 

e( I have just received an invitation to go and look 
at the Gods through a good telescope. — All in vain! 
I fancy we have been humbugged. I have seen the 
sun as flat as a trencher, but not a bit of Mercury. 
Do tell me, if it ought to be seen to-day; and if it 
ought, what is the matter with our eyes. 

<e In town I have been reading two volumes of 
Sully's Memoirs, with which I am delighted, and 
which I mean to finish the next time I can meet 
with it. Since I came back, I have been reading 
Cicero's letters to Atticus. I cannot say that I un- 
derstand every part of them, on account of many 
allusions to circumstances of the times, but with 
many parts I am much pleased/' 



In the summer of the year 1799, Mrs. S — and 
all her family removed to Ireland, where Captain 
S — 's regiment was still quartered. During their 
residence in that hospitable country, they received 
much kind attention, which they always mention 
with the warmest expressions of gratitude. The 
following elegant poem, which was addressed to 



C 73 ] 

Mrs. S — , when the family left Ballitore in 1800, to 
reside at Patterdale, will shew the impression their 
characters and conduct had made on the amiable 
and ingenious writer. 

Soft o'er the vale of Ballitore 

The gale of peace was wont to blow; 

Till discord rais'd her direful horn, 
And fill'd the shades with sounds of woe. 

The blood-stain'd earth, the warlike bands, 
Our trembling natives saw with dread ; 

Dejected labour left her toil, 

And summer's blithe enjoyments fled. 

But see, th' avenging sword is sheath'd, 

And mercy's voice is heard at last.— 
How sweet beside the winter's fire, 

To ponder on the perils past! 

Ah! think not yet your trials o'er; 

From yonder mountain's hollow side 
The fierce Banditti issue forth, 

When darkness spreads her curtain wide. 

With murd'rous arms and haggard eyes, 

The social joys away they fright ; 
Sad expectation clouds the day, 

And sleep forsakes the fearful night. 



C 74 ] 

Now martial troops protect the vale, 
At distance prowl the ruffian band.— 

Oh, Confidence! thou dearer guard, 
Why hast thou left this luckless land ? 

We droop and mourn o'er many a joy, 
O'er many a friend to dust consign'd ;— 

But ev'ry comfort is not fled, — 
Behold another friend we find. 

Lo, Juliet comes to grace the plain, 

And friendship claims the precious prize; 

She grants the claim, nor does her heart 
The children of the vale despise. 

Though polish'd life, with every charm, 
To her its brilliant scenes display'd j 

Though form'd to ornament a court, 
She deigns to dignify the shade. 

But shades more worthy of the guest 
From us this precious prize require; 

Guiltless of blood, with quiet blest, 

Where truth's own bard attunes his lyre.* 

Where Clarkson for the helpless pleads, 
Where nature's charms majestic rise; 

And broad Ulswater's beauteous lake 

Gives back the mountains, woods, and skies. 

* Thomas Wilkinson. 



[ ™ j 

There, Juliet, may thy lovely maids 
Their pencil's wond'rous art employ; 

While each acquirement gives the pow'r 
To increase their tender parent's joy. 

Unknown to dissipated minds 

The joys their gentle bosoms know ; 

'Tis theirs to turn the classic page, 
'Tis theirs to melt at others' woe. 

And there, releas'd from war's alarms, 
May thy lov'd lord delighted rove ; 

And lay the radiant scarf aside, 

Dear pledge of Juliet's anxious love I 

Like the bright dames of ancient days, 
She fram'd the web of crimson stain; 

To grace her hero's form, or bear 
Her hero wounded from the plain. 

And still dispensing kindness round, 
The happy household shall unite; 

While from amid surrounding bow'rs 
Their virtues beam with native light. 

And in their joys ive still shall joy, 
* While fancy views their dear retreat ; 
Though Juliet's eye, and Juliet's 6mile, 
No more our gladden 'd sight shall meet. 



[ 76 ] 

What though the tender tear shall start, 

And soft regret the sigh shall send ; 
Yet shall our conscious hearts exult 

In the rich gift of such a friend!* 

I will here insert some productions, of which I 
cannot exactly ascertain the date, but which were 
certainly written before the removal to Ireland. The 
imitation of Ossian was probably written at a much 
earlier period; as her partiality for the Highland 
Bard was not quite so great after she became ac- 
quainted with the learned languages as it had been 
in her childhood; though she never believed that 
the work was entirely modern, and was very desi- 
rous to read the Poems published by Dr. Smith in 
the original language, but the want of a grammar 
prevented her making much progress. When she 
was in Ireland, she endeavoured to collect traditional 
accounts of the Heroes of Morven and Erin, and 
always mentioned with pleasure any circumstances 
which appeared to prove the antiquity of the poems* 

* The author of these lines, a Quaker, is now publishing 
by subscription, " Poems, by Mary Leadbeater, (late 
Shackleton,) of Ballitore, including a translation of MafTceus's 
13th JEneid." 



[ 77 1 

Imitation of Ossian. 

" It is the voice of woe/* I cried, as our bark 
was tossing on the foaming wave ; " it is the voice 
of woe, O Finan ; I hear it at times in the blast ; it 
shrieks from yonder rock. Now the storm is some- 
what abated, let us take our oars, and try to reach 
the shore. Perhaps there is some one, more wretch- 
ed than we, to whom we may bring comfort; and 
will not that be comfort to ourselves, son of Derog?" 
f We can bring no comfort there, O Luno/ an- 
swered Finan, c 'tis the land of departed spirits. I 
see the dim forms of our fathers, sailing in their 
grey robes of mist across the mountains. They 
beckon us to approach, they shriek our welcome, 
for full well they know the ocean soon will bear us 
to that land of darkness ; we shall never more be- 
hold our lov'd, our lonely Kilda. Our wives look 
out from the rocks, the fair Malvina, and the raven-? 
tiair'd Edilda; they think they see a distant sail, joy 
sparkles in their eyes; it was but a passing cloud. 
They look silent and mournful on each other, they 
slowly return to their children. O Luno, let us 
not rashly urge our fate; it is rapture to think yet a 
moment on Kilda," * Does Finan fear to die?' I 



[ 78 ] 

said; ( Finan, the bravest among heroes; he who 
was first to climb the rock, and seek the sea-fowl's 
nest; he who was foremost in the fight; does he 
weep and tremble, when summoned to the hall of 
his fathers? When the valiant Derog advances to 
welcome his champion, shall he meet the groveling 
soul of a little man?' Finan spoke not, he raised 
his oar; I took up mine, we rowed till we reached 
the shore. The voice of mourning had ceased; there 
was no sound from the cave of the rock. We wan- 
dered on the beach to seek the habitations of men. 
In the cave of the rock sate a woman, beautiful as 
the dawn of the morning to the benighted traveller, 
but her form was wasted with sorrow; she was like 
the young rose of the mountain which the deer has 
torn up by the roots; it is still lovely, but its strength 
has failed. Her head was leaning on her hand, she 
saw not our approach. On her knees lay a young 
child, at her feet a youth like the sons of heroes. 
We gazed a moment in silence; at length I spake. 
* Daughter of sorrow, tell thy grief; we too have 
known misfortune, and learnt to pity the distressed.' 
She raised her head, she gazed with wild surprize. 
" Sons of the Ocean," she replied, " I have no 
sorrow now. My child is dead, and I shall follow 



[ 79 ] 

him. Ere the dark dews of evening fall, I shall 
meet thee, my child, in the airy hall of my fathers/' 
Her head sunk again on her hand in silence. ' Yet 
tell us, lovely mourner,' I said, c tell us, what land 
is this? for we come from far, tossed by the tempest 
from the lonely Kilda.' (i Strangers,'' she replied, 
" have ye never heard of Rona? Rona, whose fame 
spread wide as the light of day. Her sons were 
generous and brave, her fields were fruitful in corn, 
her hills were covered with sheep. Then was the 
stranger welcome to the feast. Five families dwelt 
on our plains; their chief was my father, the valiant 
Cormac, whose presence was like sun- shine to his 
guests. Oft have I heard the voice of joy resound 
in his hall, and seen the beam of gratitude in the 
eye of the ship-wrecked mariner. But now famine 
has wasted our island, and there is nothing left to 
give the weary traveller." c Surely,' I cried, c the 
hand of the liberal should ever be filled with plenty ; 
happiness should dwell in his habitation, and his 
children should never taste of sorrow. Or if the tear 
hang on their cheek for a moment, the hand of pity 
should be near to wipe it away, and to restore the 
smile of gladness. Then why is the daughter of 
Cormac left desolate? Why does the child of the 



[ 80 ] 

generous suffer want?' Ci Because she chose riches 
rather than virtue," replied the lovely mourner; 
" yet has she not been unpitied; but that pity, like 
yon coloured bow which makes the dark cloud seem 
still darker, made her folly more apparent, and tore 
her heart with anguish. Oh! son of other lands, I 
will tell thee my sad tale, though the remembrance 
be painful to my soul. Then wilt thou see that the 
daughter of Cormac has notsufTered unjustly. — Two 
youths sought the hand of Evirallin, only daughter 
of the generous Cormac. Dermod was rich, for his 
house was well stored with corn, three cows gave 
him their milk, and twenty sheep grazed for him on 
the mountain. The store of Mordred was small, 
yet was he richer than Dermod, for he had a noble 
soul. But I chose Dermod with his flocks and herds; 
for I said, the wife of Dermod never can know want; 
pleasure will always attend her call, she has only to 
wish, and be satisfied. ^Twas when the eve was 
lengthened out almost to meet the dawn, and the 
sun set far to the north, that I became the spouse of 

Dermod. The soul of Mordred was sad. The 

crop which then looked green, was blasted ere the 
harvest; it gave us not three months food. In the 
spring the sea- weed failed on the coast, the cattle 



[ 81 ] 

died of hunger. Then was Dermod equalled with 
the poorest. Our neighbours died around us. We 
divided the last scanty meal; then wandered different 
ways to seek for herbs and roots, or rather, not to 
see each other die. As I mused on the top of a 
rock, Mordred came up with a little cake. * Eat/ 
he cried, f Evirallin; preserve thy life and that of 
thy child. While yet there was corn, I was sparing; 
I have still enough for many days. Perhaps ere 
that is gone, some friendly bark may bring us aid." 
The tear of gratitude was on my cheek, but I could 
not thank the generous Mordred. Scarce had I 
tasted the food, when Dermod came with haste ; he 
tore the cake from my hand, ere I could give him 
half, and eagerly devoured it. Mordred, seized with 
rage, struck him to the ground, and he fell headlong 
from the rock; the dark wave received him, and he 
rose no more. We both stood speechless for a 
moment, then Mordred rushed forward to follow 
him, but I seized his arm. " O Mordred," I cried > 
" leave me not desolate. There is none left alive but 
thee, and me, and this little babe. We all shall 
perish soon, but let not me be the last. Leave me not 
like the wounded sea-mew, whom her companions 
have abandoned, to sit complaining on the desert 



[ 82 ] 

rock !" — Theheart of Mordredwas moved; he walked 
slow and silent away. Each day did he bring me 
a little cake. When I begged him to eat, he would 
not; he said, f I have eaten before/ This day he 
came before the accustomed time, he brought this 
little cake. e Take it,' he cried, ' Evirallin; it is the 
last. I came sooner than usual, for I felt that I could 
not live. I have never tasted food since the day that 
I killed Dermod.' He sunk down at my feet. In 
vain I tried to restore him ; the noble spirit fled. 
Then did I pour out my grief; I mourned my own 
hard fate, and I gave his praise to the winds. The 
son of the rock repeated it, there was none else to 
hear. But I remembered my child, which lay on 
the matted sea- weed. I returned — it was dead ! 
Then were my cares at an end ; I sat down to wait 
for death, which will, ere long, relieve me. Yet, 
stranger, ere I go, receive this little cake ; His all the 
wretched Evirallin has to give. I could not eat it; 
'twere like eating the flesh of Mordred }" — She 
ceased; she was faint ; two hours I supported her 
head. Finan wept over Mordred. At length I felt y 
her hand; it was cold and lifeless. We made a 
grave beneath the hanging rock. We laid the fair 
Evirallin in the narrow house, and Mordred and the 



[ 83 ] 

child beside her. We reared these grey stones at 
their heads, to mark the spot to future wanderers of 
the ocean. The last ray of the setting sun look'd 
on the new-made grave !" 



I do not know when the following reflections 
were written, but the idea was probably suggested 
by the German poem quoted in a letter to Miss 
H — , dated April 7, 1794. See page 29. 

<c Reason and Revelation, the two lights which 
the Almighty has given us to dispel the darkness 
of ignorance, and guide us to the knowledge of truth, 
may be aptly compared to the two lights He has 
placed to dispel the darkness of the natural world, 
and lead us to an acquaintance with the visible 
objects that surround us. 

iC As the sun is the grand instrument by which 
light is dispensed to the whole earth, and so resplen- 
dent that all other lights may be accounted dark- 
ness in comparison; — so revelation is the instrument 
by which knowledge is communicated, and so much 
does it exceed all other evidence in strength, that it 
alone deserves the name of knowledge. 
m ' g 2 



[ 8* ] 

<e As the moon shines with lustre borrowed from 
the sun, and witnesses his existence even in his 
absence, by reflecting a light which she could not 
have received but from him; — so reason shines with 
the reflected lustre of revelation, and witnesses its 
truth, even where, at first sight, it seems never to 
have existed, by presenting ideas which the mind 
of man could not have formed, and which therefore 
must have been originally received from revelation. 

" As the sun diffuses not only light, but vivifying 
heat, and may properly be called the animating 
principle of nature; — so revelation diffuses not merely 
speculative knowledge, but that which leads to ever- 
lasting life, and may be said to re- animate the soul. 

iC The moon gives no heat ; neither will reason 
ever lead us to life eternal. 

" The sun shines in vain for whatever is not ex- 
posed to its light and heat ; and revelation has been 
given in vain for those who will not receive its in- 
fluences. 

* c As the moon is not annihilated by the presence 
of the sun, but only lost in the superior splendour 
of his beams; — so reason is not contradicted by re- 
velation, but lost in the superior blaze of evidence. 



[ 85 ] 

w The sun is too dazzling for our unassisted eyes 
to behold; and revelation is too glorious for our 
weak faculties fully to comprehend. 

" The light of the moon is faint and dubious; and 
the light of reason is but an uncertain guide. 

" Tne scriptures plainly point to the analogy be- 
tween the natural and spiritual worlds, in number- 
less instances ; as, when the moon is called ' the 
faithful witness in heaven;' Christ is called c the 
sun of righteousness, ' ' the light of the world/ &c/ ? 

SONG FROM AFAR. 

Translated from a German Poem by Matthison* 

« When in the last faint light of ev'ning 

A smiling form glides softly by, 
A gentle sigh its bosom heaving, 

While thou in oaken grove dost lie ; 
It is the spirit of thy friend, 
Which whispers — " All thy cares shall end. M 

" When in the mild moon's peaceful twilight 
Foreboding thoughts and dreams arise, 
And at the solemn hour of midnight 

Paint fairy scenes before thine eyes; 
The poplars give a rustling sound,— 
It is my spirit hovers, round. 



[ 86 ] 

" When, deep in fields of ancient story, 
Thou hang'st enraptur'd o'er the page 
That gives and takes the meed of glory, — 
Feel'st thou a breath that fans thy rage ? 
And does the trembling torch burn pale? — 
My spirit drinks with thine the tale. 

" Hear'st thou, when silver stars are shining, 

A sound as Eol's harp divine, 
Now the wild Wind full chords combining, 

Now softly murm'ring — " Ever thine I" 
Then careless sleep, — to guard thy peace, 
My watchful spirit ne'er shall cease." 

Observations in North-Wales, probably 
written at Conway, 

"Snowdon, Penman-Mawr, and indeed all 
the mountains I have examined in Caernarvonshire, 
are composed of Schistus, the laminae of which, 
where they are found in a state of rest, appear ge- 
nerally to rise towards the south-west. In some of 
the rocks these laminae are intersected at right angles 
by veins of gypsum. The mountains are perishing 
fast; owing to the position of the strata. In winter 
the rain lodges in the intersections of the stone, and 
by its expansive force in freezing blows off immense 



[ 87 ] 

masses; so that the surface of many of the mount- 
ains, particularly of Penman-Mawr, is nothing but a 
confused heap of loose stones of all possible dimen- 
sions. The peaks have disappeared, and are only 
to be traced by rocks lying confusedly on the tops 
of mountains, where they evidently must formerly 
have stood erect. Grand as this country is, it is but 
the ruin of its former grandeur. I find no marine 
productions amongst these mountains, and indeed 
their rough and shaggy forms place them in the rank 
of primary mountains. Neither have 1 found any 
traces of volcanos. What at first sight might ap- 
pear most like one, is the immense pit at the top of 
Snowdon; but the stones are untouched by fire, 
and the cavity seems to have been occasioned by 
water in the heart of the mountain undermining its 
centre; while the peaks, more perfect than any I 
have seen, though covered with ruins, stand round 
staring at each other, and at the lake newly formed 
at their feet, as if they wondered at being exposed 
to the prying eye of day. Vegetation does not cease 
at the top of Snowdon: several sorts of moss, and 
lichen, a kind of short grass, the gallium pusil- 
lum, and a little thyme, grow even to the summit. 



I 83 I 

* e It is a custom in this country that all those 
who attend at a funeral give money to the clergy- 
man, proportionate to their rank and fortune, and 
that of the deceased. 

*' On Whit-Monday, all the country people must 
be up at three or four o'clock in the morning to 
keep holiday, on pain of being pulled out of bed and 
put in the stocks by their companions. 

iC On Christmas-Day, prayers are read in the 
Churches at four in the morning, and six in the 
evening. The church is very handsomely illumi- 
nated; and the people eat gingerbread, drink, and 
behave very riotously, even during the service. 

" What is the meaning of these customs V* 



In her letters to Dr. R— ,* Mrs. S— alludes to 
some reflexions on the applause of the world, which 
were probably written at a earlier period of Miss 
S — 's life. " I have known some very good people 
maintain in theory, and almost all in practice, that 
we ought to endeavour to gain the good opinion of 
others. It strikes me so far otherwise, that I should 

* -See Appendix. 



[ 89 ] 

think it wrong to stir my finger on purpose to gain 
the good opinion of the whole world. Not that I 
despise it ; I consider the esteem of the wise and 
good as a treasure which T should be glad to obtain; 
but to obtain by being really worthy of it, not by 
any little fraudulent arts exercised on purpose to 
catch it. To be better thought of than I deserve, is 
always a reproach; but the consciousness of having 
gained that high opinion by appearing in any respect 
better than I really am, would be to me as insup- 
portable as that of having forged a bank-note. In 
either case I should have made something pass for 
more than it was worth; I should expect the fraud 
to be sometime or other discovered; and if not, I 
could not enjoy what I had no right to possess^ 
Perhaps there is nothing more difficult to guard 
against than the desire of being admired, but I am 
convinced that it ought never to be the motive for 
the most trifling action. We should do right, be- 
cause it is the will of God; if the good opinion of 
Others follow our good conduct, we should receive 
it thankfully, as a valuable part of our reward; if not, 
we should be content without it." These senti- 
ments are certainly highly characteristic of the 
writer, for no human being, as Mrs. 3— observes. 



[ 90 ] 

ever seemed to seek the applause of the world so 
little as she did. " The approbation of God and 
her own conscience were the only rewards she ever 
sought." Let me, however, guard against her 
meaning being misunderstood, by observing, that 
wishing to gain the applause of others is very differ- 
ent from wishing to please them. In the one case 
we act from selfish motives, in the other they may 
be purely benevolent. To give pleasure to others by 
expressions of kindness and affection, as well as to 
set them a good example, forms a part of that law 
of kindness which is the distinguishing feature of the 
Christian religion ; but our motive for every action 
should be duty to God, and the desire of pleasing 
Him; the applause of our fellow- creatures may be 
the consequence of our conduct, and when it is so, 
it may be received with gratitude and pleasure; but 
our conducl: should be precisely the same in every 
instance, whether this reward is likely to be ob- 
tained by it or not. The Christian should act on 
higher motives, and " through evil report and good 
report," he should always strive to please God. 

AtBallitore, where the family spent nine months, 
Miss S — had access to a very curious collection of 
books, chiefly Greek and Latin, and I wish to give 



[ 91 ] 

some idea of the use she made of them. A bundle 
of papers found since her death is thus entitled: 
ce Fasciculus Plantarum rariorum discerpta apud 
Ballitore, vere 1800. Alia ob pulchritudinem, alia 
ob odorem, alia ob curiositatem/'* In each paper 
is the name of an author and some extracts in the 
original languages ; some shorty but others of con- 
siderable length. I am informed that manv of the 
Greek extracts are taken from a volume containing 
fragments of the minor poets. Others are much 
longer quotations, from Epi&etus, Hesiod, and the 
Sybilline Oracles. The Latin authors are, — Cicero- 
nis specimen; Terentius distillatus; Grotius de 
Veritate; Baconis Sermones Fideles ; and Bacon de 
Augmentis Scientiarum. In English, there is 
Josephus; on which are notes which refer to the 
whole of his works, both the Antiquities and the 
Wars of the Jews, and it is evident that Miss S-— 
had studied them with attention. Asa proof of the 
indefatigable application with which she pursued her 
studies, I will take this opportunity of mentioning 
some of the papers found after her death : 

* " A colle&ion of curious Plants, gathered at Ballitore in 
1800. Some for their beauty, some for their sweetness, 
some for their rarity, ,, 



I 92 ] 

A complete Analysis of Homer's OdyiTey. 

Extracts from Quintus Curtius. 

Extracts from Maurice's History of Indostan. 

Extracts from Bruce's Travels. 

Thirteen folio pages, closely written, containing near a 

thousand words, written in Hebrew and Persic, to 

shew the resemblances between those languages. 
A great number of Greek words with their signification. 
A collection of Welsh words. 
A collection of words from Africa, — Mandingo, Foulah, 

Zangay, &c. 
Explanation of many of the proper names in Scripture. 
A collection of words from the Chinese. 
Explanation of the names of many stars, with their titles 

in Arabic ; and other papers in that language. 
Extracts from Bartholinus, in the Icelandish language. 
An abstract of the contents of the Edda, &c. &c. 

To account for the trouble which Miss S — took 
in collecting so many words in different languages, 
and making so many extracts from books, it must 
be recollected that she was often without a home, 
and deprived of the assistance of dictionaries; and 
that the books from which she derived so much 
pleasure and improvement were not her own, and 
perhaps for a short time only accessible to her. 

After Mrs, S— returned from Ireland, she resi- 
ded during some months at Patterdale, by the Lake 



[ 93 ] 

of Ulswater, from whence the following little Poem, 
written by Miss S — , was sent by her and her sister, 
with a very elegant Irish Poplin, to a friend, whose 
services, though not her afFe&ion, they always greatly 
over- rated. 

« Patter dak, Dec. 8, 1800. 

*• Were India's choicest treasures ours, 
And did we give them all to thee; 
Vet could not that be call'd a gift, 
Which would not set the debtors free. 

« For more than worlds to thee we owe, 
Who still hast prov'd our kindest friend ; 
Then add one favour to the past, 
To take the trifle we can send. 

*« To purchase pleasures for ourselves 

Thy bounteous hand a store supply'dj 
The little part we thus employ 

Has bought us more than all beside.'' 

E. S. and C, S." 

From Patterdale, Elizabeth writes thus to Miss 
H— . 

<€ March 22, 1801. 

" You have perhaps heard of the little farm pur- 
chased, and the house hired at C , where we 



C 94 ] 

are to be planted in May. In the mean time we 
vegetate in a very beautiful country; but this is not 
the season for enjoying it, and other enjoyments we 
certainly have none ; but we look forward to the 
land of promise, and flatter ourselves all will be 
better in the next house. My Father is still in 

Ireland.* Do you remember, Werter says every 

day he lives amongst the country people he is more 
delighted with Homer, because he finds his account 
correspond so exactly with nature? I find it the 
same here. Our neighbours are very little advanced 
beyond the state of civilization described by him, 
and their manners agree surprisingly. I could give 
you many instances of this, and shew you several 
Nestors, if I had the happiness of seeing you here. 
I cannot indeed boast of having met with a Hector. 
What is still more astonishing is, that the belief in 
ghosts and witches is still in full force. We have 
heard several serious and very recent stories of ghosts 
that have been seen and laid in the neighbourhood ; 
and there is an old Conjuror living close by, who is 
always applied to, and who exerts his power when 

* Mr. S— went into the army in the year 1794, soon 
after the misfortune which deprived him of Piercefield, and 
he spent several years in Ireland with his regiment. 



t 95 ] 

the butter will not come, or when any thing is lost ; 
besides many others of the same trade, in whose 
incantations the poor people believe at least as firmly 
as they do in the Bible. When I come to witchcraft, 
you will think it is time for me to leave off. I obey, 
intreating you to be assured of my most sincere 
affe&ion." 

The circumstance which gave occasion to the 
following refle&ions, happened exactly as it is here 
described. 

« Patter dak, Feb. 1801. 

H Alone on the pathless steep I wander'd, 
I sought the foaming waterfall ; 
And high o'er the torrent's brink I clamber'd, 
Which loud and dreadful roar'd beneath. 

" At length I came where a winter's streamlet 
Had torn the surface from the earth; 
Its bed was fill'd with dry shelving gravel 
Which slid beneath my hands and feet. 

* The pebbles roll'd rattling down the steep slope, 
Then dash'd into the dark abyss. 
I follow'd — there was nought to save me, 
Nor bush, nor rock, nor grass, nor moss. 



t 36 ] 

Then did I tranquilly my life resign ; 
« If 'tis the will of God that here 

• I perish, may that will be done!' but sudden 

Across my mind th* idea flash'd — 
< 'Twas not by his command I hither came ; 
' 'Tis I, who wickedly have thrown away 
' That life, which He for nobler ends had givW 
Then, with a deep repentance for my fault, 
And firm reliance on his mighty pow'r, 
I pray'd to Him who is, who fills all space, 

* O Lord, deliver me! I know Thou canst!' 
Instant I rais'd my eyes, I know not why, 
And saw my Sister stand a few yards off; 

She seem'd to watch me, but she could not help* 
Then, as the busy brain oft sees in sleep, 
I thought she saw me slip into the stream, 
And dash rebounding on from rock to rock. 
Swiftly she ran all down the mountain side 
To meet below my mangled lifeless limbs, 
And tatter'd garments. — Life then had value, 
It was worth a struggle, to spare her soul 
That agony. — I passM, I know not how, 
The danger; then look'd up — she was not there, 
Nor had been ! 'Twas perhaps a vision sent 
To save me from destruction. Shall I then 
Say that God does not heed the fate of mortals, 
When not a sparrow falls without his will, 
And when He thus has sav'd a worm like me I 



[ 97 ] 

So when I totter on the brink of sin, 

May the same mercy save me from the gulph!" 

On some remarkably sweet tones issuing from 
the wood on the fire, during a very severe frost. 

" Patter dale, January 1801. 

" The storm is past; the raging wind no more, 
Between the mountains rushing, sweeps the vale, 
Dashing the billows of the troubled lake 
High into air; — the snowy fleece lies thick; 
From ev'ry bough, from ev'ry jutting rock 
The crystals hang; — the torrent's roar hasceas'd,— 
As if that voice which call'd creation forth 
Had said, * Be still ! ' All nature stands aghast, 
Suspended by the viewless power of cold. 

" Heap high the fire with wood, and let the blaze 
With mimic sunshine gild our gloomy room. 
The rising flame now spreads a cheerful rayj 
We hover round, rejoicing in the heat; 
The stiffen'd limbs relax, the heart dilates. 
Hark to that sound ! Amid the burning pile 
A voice, as of a silver trumpet, speaks. 

« Children of Taste J Nature's enthusiasts! 
Ye, who, with daring pride, attempt to paint 
These awful scenes; is this an offering fit 
To great Ulswater's Genius? Is it thus 
Ye adore the picturesque, the beautiful? 
H 



C 98 ] 

Is this your homage to the dread sublime ? 

Oft as ye stray where lofty Stybrow tow'rs, 

Or Glencoin opes her ramparts to the lake, 

Ye view tire roots of trees that once have been,— 

The hypocritic tear in every eye 

Stands trembling, and ye almost curse the man 

Who laid their leafy honours low; — perhaps 

Some sage reflection follows, on the fate 

Of greatness tumbled from its airy height,- 

Of youth and beauty lopp'd in early bloom,— 

Or else on avarice, that fiend who turns 

The woods to gold, the heart to steel. — Then home 

Ye hie, and feed the fire with those Iov'd trees 

Whose fall ye have deplor'd. For this, be sure 

Our sister Dryads ne'er shall spread their arms 

To screen ye from the summer's noon-tide ray ; 

'But e'er the Sun ascends his fiery car, 

Banish'd from these sequester'd glades, far off 

To scorching plains and barren mountains go, 

Where not a bough shall wave to fan the breeze, 

Nor rill shall murmur coolness as it flows. 

Then learn how vain th* excuse—" I did no wrong; 

I only shar'd the gain of him who did." 



I will here insert reflections on various subjects 
found amongst Miss S — 's papers, most of which, I 
believe, were written after her return from Ireland. 



i 



[ 99 ] 

Cf Why are the writings of the ancients, generally 
speaking, superior to those of the moderns? Because 
paper was scarce. Of course they would think 
deeply, and consider their subject on every side, 
before they would spoil their parchment by writing 
what on reflection might appear not worth preserving. 
The same cause, added to the labour of transcribing, 
would prevent copies being multiplied, except of 
what was really valuable. Thus what has come 
down to our time, is only the cream of the writings 
of the ancients, skimmed ofFby thejudgment of their 
immediate successors, and cannot fairly be com- 
pared with the general mass of modem literature." 

" One of the most common subjects of com- 
plaint, among those who wish to shew their wisdom 
by arraigning the whole economy of the universe, is 
the inequality in the distribution of the goods of this 
life. It is unfair, say they, that a fool should be 
surrounded with dignities, honours, and affluence, 
while a wise man perhaps begs at his door. This 
is a mistake, arising, as false opinions general!/ 
do, from a too hasty view of the subject. Let the 
wisdom of the one be weighed against the exterior 
trappings of the other, and it will then appear that 

H 2 



t 100 ] 

the wise man has by much the greater share of the 
goods even of this life, wisdom being the most 
valuable gift that God can bestow. It may also 
be proved that he is the happiest. He is of course 
virtuous, for true wisdom is the mother of virtue, 
and his wisdom and virtue will teach him to be 
contented with whatever lot the will of God may 
ordain for him. This is more than the fool in the 
midst of his wealth can ever attain to. He is 
always pursuing some new bauble, and despising all 
he possesses in comparison with what he wishes to 
obtain; and though he may riot in what he calls 
pleasure for a time, he never enjoys that inward 
satisfaction, that sunshine of the mind, which alone 
deserves the name of happiness. If, then, honours, 
distinctions, and riches, were given exclusively to 
the wise and good, what would become of the fool- 
ish and the wicked? They would lose their only 
enjoyment, and become much more wretched than 
it is possible for a wise man to be under any circum- 
stances. At the same time the happiness of the 
wise would not increase in the same proportion as 
that of the fool diminished; because his mind being 
fixed on higher obje&s, he would but lightly regard 
those advantages on which the other sets so high a 



C 101 ] 

value. The dog eats meat, and delights in all the 
dainties of the table; but must the sheep therefore 
complain that it has only grass ? It has the food 
best adapted to its nature. Were the dog turned 
out to graze, he would starve." 

" The hand of a friend imparts inestimable value 
to the most trifling token of remembrance; but a 
magnificent present from one unloved is like golden 
fetters, which encumber and restrain not the less for 
being made of costly materials." 

<e Humility has been so much recommended, 
and is indeed so truly a christian virtue, that some 
people fancy they cannot be too humble. If they 
speak of humility towards God, they are certainly 
right ; we cannot, by the utmost exertion of our 
faculties, measure the distance between Him and 
us, nor prostrate ourselves too low before Him; but 
with regard to our fellow-creatures, I think the case 
is different. Though we ought by no means to 
assume too much, a certain degree of respect to 
ourselves is necessary to obtain a proportionate de- 
gree from others. Too low an opinion of ourselves 
will also prevent our undertaking what we are very 



t 102 ] 

able to accomplish, and thus prevent the fulfilment 
of our duty j for it is our duty to exert the powers 
given us, to the utmost, for good purposes ; and how 
shall we exert powers which we are too humble- 
minded to suppose we possess? In this particular, 
as in all others, we should constantly aim at disco- 
vering the truth. Though our faculties, both in- 
tellectual and corporeal, be absolutely nothing com- 
pared with the Divinity, yet when compared with 
those of other mortals they rise to some relative 
value, and it should be our study to ascertain that 
value, in order that we may employ them to the best 
advantage; always remembering that it is better to 
fix it rather below than above the truth. 

<( It is very surprising that praise should excite 
vanity; for if what is said of us be true, it is no more 
than we knew before, and cannot raise us in our 
own esteem ; if it be false, it is surely a most humi- 
liating reflection, that we are only admired because 
we are not known, and that a closer inspection 
would draw forth censure, instead of commendation. 
Praise can hurt only those who have not formed a 
decided opinion of themselves, and who are willing, 
on the testimony of others, to rank themselves 



[ 103 ] 

higher than their merits warrant, in the scale of 
excellency." 

" Pleasure is arose near which there ever 
grows the thorn of evil. It is wisdom's work so 
carefully to cull the rose, as to avoid the thorn, and 
let its rich perfume exhale to heaven, in grateful 
adoration of Him who gave the rose to blow." 

*' As the sun breaking forth in winter, so is joy 
in the season of affliction. As a shower in the midst 
of summer, so are the salutary drops of sorrow mh> 
gled in our cup of pleasure." 

" A sum of happiness sufficient to supply our 
reasonable desires for a long time is sometimes con- 
densed into a little space, as light is concentrated 
in the flash. Such moments are given to enable us 
to guess at the joys of heaven." 

" In vain do we attempt to fix our thoughts on 
heaven; the vanities of this world rise like a cloud 
of dust before the eyes of the traveller, and obscure, 
if not totally conceal, the beautiful and boundless 
prosped of the glorious country towards which we 
are tending," # 



[ 104 ] 

<c If it were the business of man to make a reli- 
gion for himself, the Deist, the Theophilanthropist, 
the Stoic, or even the Epicurean, might be approved \ 
but this is not the case. We are to believe what 
God has taught us, and to do what He has com- 
manded. All other systems are but the reveries of 
mortals, and not religion/' 

" The christian life may be compared to a mag- 
nificent column, whose summit always points to 
heaven. The innocent and therefore real pleasures 
of this world are the ornaments on the pedestal; 
very beautiful, and highly to be enjoyed when the 
eye is near, but which should not too long or too 
frequently detain us from that just distance, where 
we can contemplate the whole column, and where 
the ornaments on its base disappear/' 

u The cause of all sin is a deficiency in our love 
of God. If we really loved Him above all things, 
we should not be too strongly attached to terrestrial 
objects, and should with pleasure relinquish them 
all to please him. Unfortunately, while we continue 
on earth, our minds are so much more strongly 
affe&ed by the perceptions of the senses than by 



[ 105 ] 

abstract ideas, that it requires a continual exertion 
to keep up even the remembrance of the invisible 
world." 

** When I hear of a great and good character 
falling into some heinous crime, I cannot help crying, 
* Lord, what am I, that I should be exempt? O 
preserve me from temptation, or how shall I stand, 
when so many, much my superiors, have fallen?' 

€€ Sublimity is something beyond the little 
circle of our comprehension, and whatever within 
that circle approaches the circumference, approaches 
the sublime. The pleasure occasioned by the idea 
of sublimity seems to me to consist in the exertion 
of the mind, which, when violent, overpowers weak 
minds, as violent exercise does weak bodies, but 
makes strong ones feel and rejoice in their own 
energy. Mr. Burke certainly understood and felt 
the sublime; but I think he would have defined it 
better, if, instead of saying it is occasioned by ter- 
ror, he had said, it is something incomprehensible 
to the mind of man, something which it struggles 
to take in, but cannot; which exerts all its powers, 
yet baffles them. The instances he brings of it 



[ I0« 1 

would in general agree much better with this idea 
than with that of terror; as, an extent of space of 
which the eye sees not the bounds, a degree of dark- 
ness which conceals them; every thing which oc- 
casions indistinctness and difficulty. The same 
perpendicular height gives a more sublime idea to a 
person on the summit than at the base, because 
the eye cannot so easily measure the height." 

Ci Imagination, like the setting sun, casts a 
glowing lustre over the prospect, and lends to every 
object an enchanting brilliancy of colouring ; but 
when reason takes the place of imagination, and the 
sun sinks behind the mountain, all fade alike into 
the night of disappointment." 

" Study is to the mind what exercise is to the 
body ; neither can be active and vigorous without 
proper exertion. Therefore if the acquisition of 
knowledge were not an end worthy to be gained, 
still study would be valuable on its own account, 
as tending to strengthen the mind: just as a walk 
is beneficial to our health, though we have no par- 
ticular object in view. And certainly, for that most 
humiliating mental disorder, the wandering of the 



[ 107 ] 

thoughts, there is no remedy so efficacious as in- 
tense study.' ' 

" An hour well spent condemns a life. When 
we reflect on the sum of improvement and delight 
gained in that single hour, how do the multitude of 
hours already past rise up and say, what good has 
marked us ? Would'st thou know the true worth of 
time, employ one hour" 

<e To read a great deal would be a sure preven- 
tive of much writing, because almost every one 
might find all he has to say, already written/ ' 

" A woman must have uncommon sweetness of 
disposition and manners to be forgiven for posses- 
sing superior talents and acquirements." 

i( As by weighing a guinea in water, we prove 
whether it be really gold, so by weighing our own 
faculties and attainments with those of the world in 
general, we may ascertain their real worth. What- 
ever bulk they have gained by the swelling of vanity, 
so much weight will they lose on the trial. No orie 
can be convinced how difficult it is to know him- 



[ 108 ] 

self, without observing the erroneous opinions which 
others entertain of themselves ; but having seen how 
far vanity will lead them, we must suspect our- 
selves." 

a It is not learning that is disliked in women, 
but the ignorance and vanity which generally ac- 
company it. A woman's learning is like the fine 
clothes of an upstart, who is anxious to exhibit to 
all the world the riches so unexpectedly acquired. 
The learning of a man, on the contrary, is like he- 
reditary rank, which having grown up with him, 
and being in a manner interwoven with his nature, 
he is almost unconscious of possessing it. The 
reason of this difference is the scarcity of the com- 
modity amongst females, which makes every one 
who possesses a little, fancy herself a prodigy. As 
the sum total increases, we may reasonably hope 
that each will become able to bear her share with a 
better grace/' 

" Why do so many men return coxcombs from 
their travels ? Because they set out fools. If a 
man take with him even a moderate share of com- 
mon sense, and a desire of improvement, he will 



t 109 ] 

find travelling the best introduction to an acquaint- 
ance with himself, and of course the best corrector 
of vanity; for if we knew ourselves, of what could 
any of us be vain? Vanity is the fruit of ignorance, 
which thrives most in subterranean places, where 
the air of heaven, and the light of the sun, never 
reach it." 

" Hope without foundation is an ignis faiuns; 
and what foundation can we have for any hope, but 
that of heaven?" 

" Great actions are so often performed from 
little motives of vanity, self-complacency, and the 
like, that I am more apt to think highly of the per- 
son whom I observe checking a reply to a petulant 
speech, or even submitting to the judgment of 
another in stirring the fire, than of one who gives 
away thousands." 

" To be good and disagreeable is high treason 
against virtue." 

"Our endeavours to reach perfection are like 
those of Sysiphus to roll the stone up the hill ; we 



[ no ] 

have a constant tendency downwards, which we 
must exert all our efforts to counteract." 

" A great genius can render clear and intelligible 
any subject within the compass of human know- 
ledge; therefore what is called a deep book, (too 
deep to be understood,) we may generally conclude 
to be the produce of a shallow understanding/ ' 

cc We were placed in this world to learn to be 
happy; that is, so to regulate and employ our pas- 
sions as to make them productive of happiness ; if 
we do not learn this lesson, but on the contrary, 
make them productive of misery, by cultivating and 
encouraging the malevolent, instead of the bene- 
volent affections, heaven itself cannot make us 
happy. For a being accustomed to indulge envy, 
hatred, and malice, against superior excellence, 
would be in a state of the most agonisizing torture if 
placed in the midst of perfection, where every object 
calculated to inspire love and admiration, veneration 
and gratitude, in a well-disposed mind, would excite 
the opposite painful emotions in his." 

" A happy day is worth enjoying, it exercises the 
soul for heaven. The heart that never tastes of 



[ 111 ] 

pleasure, shuts up, grows stiff, and incapable of 
enjoyment. How then shall it enter the realms of 
bliss? A cold heart can receive no pleasure even 
there. Happiness is the support of virtue; they 
should always travel together, and they generally do 
so; when the heart expands to receive the latter, her 
companion enters of course. In some situations, if 
I ever do right, it is mechanically, or in compliance 
with the deductions of reason ; in others, it is from 
an inward sentiment of goodness, from the love of 
God, and admiration of the beauty of virtue, I 
believe it is impossible to be wicked and happy at 
the same time." 

s< When we think of the various miseries of the 
world, it seems as if we ought to mourn continually 
for our fellow-creatures, and that it is only for want 
of feeling that we indulge in joy for a single mo- 
ment. But when we consider all these apparent 
evils as dispensations of Providence, tending to 
correct the corruption of our nature, and to fit us for 
the enjoyment of eternal happiness, we can not 
only look with calmness on the misfortunes of 
others, but receive those appointed for ourselves 
with gratitude." 



[ 112 J 

ce Happiness is a very common plant, a native 
of every soil; yet is some skill required in gathering 
it ; for many poisonous weeds look like it, and de- 
ceive the unwary to their ruin." 

cc Courage has been extolled as the first of 
human virtues; again, it has been considered as the 
mere mechanical effect of blood and spirits. Whence 
arise these opposite opinions? To answer this quest- 
ion, we must trace fear to its origin, z. e, the cradle r 
We are all naturally cowards, as we are gluttons, &c. 
The first passions of children are, a desire of food; 
fear, when any thing approaches which they fancy 
may hurt them; and anger, when their inclinations 
are thwarted. These instincts are wisely implanted, 
for the purpose of self-preservation, not only in the 
human species, but in the whole animal creation. 
By these we are and must be guided, tiil reason 
gain sufficient strength to rule them. In some 
this never happens, and they are children all their 
lives; or rather they degrade themselves to brutes, 
by not using their reason for the purpose for which 
it was given. Since, then, fear is natural, courage 
does not consist in its absence, but in its proper 
regulation by reason; to fear only when there is 



[ "3 ] 

cause to fear. On this subject there will be various 
opinions. Some think any bodily pain or injury a 
cause of fear, others dread the censure or ridicule of 
the world, &c. It is the Christian alone, who, 
having his treasure in heaven, can find no cause of 
fear in this world, and who is therefore the only 
hero. Others may possess degrees of courage suffi- 
cient for outside shew, to impose upon the world^ 
to be admired, and to be talked of; but which 
having no better foundation than vanity, emulation, 
or shame, all originally the offspring of fear, will 
shrink from even a small trial which no eye beholds* 
because their natural timidity having been argued 
down by only weak and partial reasons, will always 
recur when those reasons fail. Such courage is not 
a virtue, though still, as being an exertion of reason, 
upon whatever principles, it is more respectable than 
cowardice. It is the foundation of religion alone, 
which exalts courage to the highest virtue, and at 
the same time makes it universal, as being an uni- 
versal principle applicable to all circumstances," 



In theyear 1803, Mr. Sotheby, the elegant transla- 
tor of Oberon, expressed to me a wish that MissS— 's 
i 



[ U4 1 

uncommon talents should be employed in something 
which might interest the public ; particularly in 
translations from the German. He could scarcely 
credit what I said of the facility with which she 
translated from that very difficult language; and 
taking down Gesner's works, which was the only 
German book in my possession, he turned to one 
of the Idylls, and requested me to ask her to trans- 
late it. I believe she had never read it, and I know 
she had no dictionary; but I told her that Mr. 
Sotheby had commended the poem highly, and I 
wished she would make me understand it. The 
next morning she brought me the following. 



" A Picture of the Deluge* 

"The marble towers were already deep buried 
beneath the flood, and dark waves already rolled 
over the mountain tops ; one lofty summit stood 
alone above the waters. Its sides resounded with 
the mingled cries of wretches who attempted to 
ascend, and whom death followed on the dashing 
wave. Here, a crag, rent from the mountain, fell 
with its burthen of helpless mortals into the foam- 



[ 115 ] 

ing flood ; there, the wild stream of a torrent hurried 
down the son, as he was dragging up his dying fa- 
ther; or the despairing mother with the load of her 
children. Only the highest summit now remained 
above the deluge. 

" Semin, a noble youth, to whom the most noble 
of maidens had sworn eternal love, had saved his 
beloved Semira on the summit. All else were dead. 
They stood alone in the howling storm; the waves 
dash'd over them. Above them growl'd the thun- 
der, and beneath roar'd the furious ocean. Darkness 
reign 'd around, save when the lightning shew'd 
the horrid scene. Each cloud's dark brow threat- 
en'd vengeance, and each wave roll'd on a thousand 
corses; it rolPd on with fury, seeking for more de- 
struction. — Semira press'd her beloved to her trem- 
bling heart; tears ran with the rain-drops down her 
faded cheeks. She spoke with a faltering voice.— 

c; There is no more safety, O my beloved ! my 
Semin ! Death surrounds us. O destruction ! O 
misery! Death comes every moment nearer. Which 
of those waves, oh, which will overwhelm us? Hold 
me, hold me in thy trembling arms, O my beloved ! 
Soon, soon shall I, shalt thou, be no more ; swal- 
I 2 



C "6 ) 

lowed up in the universal destruction. Now, — O 
God! yonder it rolls. How dreadful! It rolls yet 
nearer, illumined by the lightning. Now, — O God! 
our Judge!" she said, and sunk on Semin. His 
trembling arm surrounded his fainting love. No 
voice breathed from his quivering lips. He saw 
destruction no longer ; he saw only the fainting 
Semira leaning on his bosom, and felt more than 
the chill of death. Now he kiss'd her pale cheek, 
wet with the chilling rain ; he pressed her closer to 
his breast, and said, < Semira, beloved Semira ^ 
wake ! Oh, yet return to this scene of horror, that 
thine eyes may look on me once more ; that thy 
pale lips may once more tell me that thou Iov'st me 
even in death. Yet once more, ere the flood o'er- 
whelm us both!' He said, and she awoke. She 
look'd on him with an eye full of tenderness and 
inexpressible sorrow, — then on the wide scene of de- 
solation. <c O God; our Judge!" she cried, iC is- 
there no protection, is there no pity for us ? O how 
the waves dash, how tfie thunder roars around us ! 
What terrors announce the unpropitiated judgment. 
O God \ our years flowed on in innocence. Thou,, 
the most virtuous of youths ! — Woe, woe is me ! 
They are all gone ; they who adorn'd my life with 



[ 117 ] 

the flowers of joy are all gone! — And thou who 
gavest me life — O agonising sight ! the wave tore 
thee from my side. Yet once didst thou rise thy 
head and thine arms; thou would'st have blest me, 
and wert overwhelm'd. they are all gone — and 
yet — O Semin, Semin ; beside thee the lonely deso- 
lated world would be to me a Paradise. Our youthful 
years flow'd on in innocence. Oh, is there no sal- 
vation, no mercy ? Yet why does my afflicted heart 
complain r O God, forgive! We die. What is 
the innocence of man in thy sight?" The youth 
supported his beloved as she trembled in the storm, 
and said, * Yes, my beloved, life is banish'd from 
the earth; the voice of the dying no more is heard 
amidst the roaring of the ocean. O Semira, my 
dearest Semira, the next moment will be our last ! 
Yes, they are gone, the hopes of this life are all 
gone ; every pleasing prospect that we imagined in 
the enraptured hours of our love, is vanished. We 
die; — but O let us not await the universal doom 
like those who have no hope; and O my beloved, 
what is the longest, the happiest life? A dew-drop 
that hangs from the jutting rock, and before the 
morning sun, falls into the sea.— Raise up thy 
drooping spirit. — Beyond this life is peace and eter- 



[ us ] 

nity. Let us not tremble now, as we pass over. 
Embrace me, and so let us await our destiny. Soon 
my Semira^ soon shall our souls rise above this de- 
solation; full of feelings of inexpressible happiness 
shall they arise. O God, hope fills my soul with 
courage. Yes, Semira, let us lift up our hands to 
God. Shall a mortal adjust his balance? He who 
breath'd into us the breath of life; He sends death 
to the righteous, and to the unrighteous ; but well 
is it for him who hath walked in the path of virtue. 
We pray not for life, Q righteous Judge ! Take us 
from hence; but oh, invigorate the hope, the sweet 
hope of inexpressible happiness, which death shall 
no more disturb. — Then roll, ye thunders, and rage, 
thou ocean ; dash over us, ye waves! Praised be 
the righteous Judge; praised! Let this be the last 
thought of our soul in the dying body.' — Courage 
and jov animated the face of Semira. She rais'4 
her hands in the storm, and said, " Yes, I feel the 
delightful, the glorious hope ! Praise the Lord, O 
my tongue ; weep tears of joy, my eyes, till death 
shall close ye. A heaven filPd with happiness awaits 
us. Ye are all gone before, ye beloved! We come. 
Soon, O soon we shall again behold you ! They 
stand before his throne, the Righteous One's; fit has 



[ "9 ] 

gathered them together from his judgment. Roar, 
ye thunders ; rage, destruction; ye are hymns of 
praise to his righteousness. Roll over us, ye waves. 
See, my beloved! — Embrace me — yonder it comes; 
death comes on yon dark wave. Embrace me, Se- 
min; leave me not. O already the flood uplifts me 
from the earth. " — < I embrace the! Semira/ said 
the youth, f I embrace thee ! O death, thou art wel- 
come. We are prepared. Praised be the Eternal 
Just One!' — The next wave found them locked in 
each other's arms: the succeeding found them not!" 



Mr. Sotheby was extremely pleased with this 
translation, and his encouragement and kind assist- 
ance led me to engage my beloved friend in a work, 
which employed much of her time and attention, 
and in which she took particular pleasure; till her 
last fatal illness put an end to her pursuits, and to 
all our earthly hopes in regard to her. The work 
to which I allude, is a Translation of Letters and 
Memoirs relating to Mr. and Mrs. Klopstock. The 
interest which was awakened by Mrs. Klopstock's 
letters, lately published in the correspondence of 
Mr, Richardson, led me to suppose thatauthentic in- 



[ 120 ] 

formation with regard to that amiable woman would 
be well received by the public; and the kindness of 
the venerable Dr. Mumssen, of Altona, who had 
been the intimate friend of Klopstock, supplied me 
with many letters and other works in prose and 
verse, which Miss S — translated, and which are 
prepared for the press ; though some of the manu- 
scripts with which I was favoured by Dr. Mum- 
ssen, arrived too late. I will here insert some extracts 
from Miss S — 's letters, which were sent to me with 
different parts of this little work, the materials for 
which were received by me, and forwarded to her 
at different times. 



-, November o^ 1804, 



cs My Mother has, I hope, told you, my dearest 
friend, that Mr. Sotheby's book arrived the day be- 
fore she left home, which was as soon as I could do 
any good with it. My Mother and I were so com- 
fortable together, that I did not attempt to do any 
thing except translating the little Ode to Bodmar 
one night after she was gone to bed. I shall now 
have a clear week between her going and my Sister's 
coming, and that will be sufficient to do all you 



[ 121 ] 

want. But I ought to tell you what I have got, 

that you may explain your wishes more fully. 

— I shall 20 on with these 



till my Sister's return, and then shall wait your 
orders to send what you chuse. I cannot conclude 
without thanking you most heartily for the employ- 
ment. I am so delighted with Klopstock, that I 
feel very glad of an excuse to give up my whole 
time and thoughts to him. As to the Dictionary, I 
am sorry to have troubled Mr. Sotheby, for 1 have 
not yet found any use for it. The English often 
runs so naturally in the same course with the Ger- 
man, that I have nothing to do but to write it down. 
Perhaps you will be kind enough to mention any 
thing you dislike ; then if it be Klopstock's fault, 
you must be content -, if mine, it shall be corrected 
with thankfulness." 

" November 25, 
" That you may not suspect me of arrogance in 
saying that I made no use of the Dictionary, I must 
tell you that the difficulty of Klopstock's Odes (for 
difficult many of them certainly are) does not consist 
in hard words, but in the wide range of ideas, and 
the depth of thought, which he has expressed in 



[ 122 ] 

very concise language; of course, often bordering on 
obscurity, but such obscurity as no dictionary has 
power to dissipate. On the contrary, in translating 
the prose, I have several times had occasion to con- 
sult it for names of things in common use, which 
never occur in poetry, and it has not always afforded 
the information I wanted. There are some words 
for which I am still at a loss, which I send in Ger- 
man, in hopes that Miss H — can explain them. If 
you imagine me making rapid progress, you are to- 
tally mistaken. Since my sisters and JB — * came 
home, my perfect stillness is at an end ; and my 
brains being of that kind which requires the aid of 
outward composure, it is not without difficulty that 
1 can now translate the prose, and the poetry I do 
not think of attempting. The present sheet is all I 
have translated since their return, though I have still 
some left of what I had done before. I fear it will 
be so long before all our materials are collected, 
that the subject: will be forgotten in the world. 
Never, I intreat you, think of thanking me; but be 
assured that if I can do any thing to amuse you, 
whether it be of any further use, or not, the pleasure 
of doing so is to me an ample reward." 
* Third son of Mrs. S— . 



£ 123 3 

(( December 22. 
" Last night arrived your parcel, — your little 
parcel of great treasures. The letters between Klop- 
stock and his wife are highly interesting to those 
who know and love them as we do; and many of 
the letters of their friends written after her death 

will, I am sure, delight you. __ 

You put a dash under 



warm bed-chamber, as if you thought we could not 
give you one; it is therefore my duty to tell you 
that it is the warmest and best thing we have; and 
that if it were possible to transport you hither, we 
should not despair of making you comfortable, even 
in the depth of winter; nor of hearing you admire 
our mountains every time the sun shone. In fact, 
their present colouring is so rich, and the small ele- 
vation of the sun above the horizon is so favourable 
to the lights and shadows, that when a gleam does 
dart across the valley, it is, in a painter's eye, more 
beautiful than in summer. The mountains in the 
back-ground are covered with snow, but we have 
only a little sprinkling on the top of our highest 
neighbour. I hope too, you would not here be so 
often c sick at heart' as you are at Bath, and al- 
ways mast be, till you learn, what you never will 



[ 224 ] 

learn, to care for nobody but yourself. We ex- 
pected Miss H — would have some influence in 
keeping you quiet, by making you happy at home ; 
but it seems even her power is not sufficient. Give 
my kind love to her. L — is at home for the holi- 
days. He and B — are very grateful for your kind 
remembrance. As to your own children, I need 
not waste paper in telling you how much they love 
you." 



"March 22, 1805. 
u A small box will be dispatched to-morrow, con- 
taining a translation of all the prose in Mr. Sotheby's 
book, &c. I fear you will find some German still 
sticking to the translation, which I have not been 
able to rub off. — I have added some of my Sunday 
work, for your private amusement. You are so well 
acquainted with the subject, and have the power of 
consulting so many books, that you will probably 
know I am mistaken in many instances; and you 
will highly oblige me by telling me so. Where I 
may be right, it is often no more than a lucky guess, 
and guesses must sometimes prove erroneous. — At 
the bottom of the box you will find a few transpa- 



[ 123 ] 

reticles done by K — and me for your shew-box.* 

T sends her duty. If she durst, I believe it 

would her love.f 

"April 16. 
" Your gratitude to me, dearest friend, is like 
T — 's duty to you, rejected because you owe none. 
The employment has been very delightful to me. I 
could not have got through the winter without some- 
thing to engage my thoughts, to fix my attention; 
and I could hardly have found any thing that would 
do this more agreeably than the Klopstocks : yet I 
should have wanted a sufficient motive for spending 
so much time on them, had not you supplied one in 
the pleasure of doing any thing for you. You have 
provided both the subject and the motive for action; 
and thus on this, as on all other occasions, lam highly 

* At Patterdale and C , Miss S — and her sister* 

found much employment for the pencil, and I am in possession 
of a beautiful set of transparencies, from scenes in that country, 
which prove how well they employed it. Elizabeth discover- 
ed a method of clearing the lights with wax, instead of oil or 
varnish, which I think answers perfectly well. 

f The faithful servant mentioned by Mrs. S~- ; see Ap- 
nendix. 



[ 126 J 

indebted to you. I have now sent all that was want- 
ing of the little volume, except some of the letters 
of their friends, which seemed to throw no parti- 
cular light on the subject, and are only interesting 
as they shew how much the Klopstocks were be- 
loved. If you find this packet more incorrect than 
the former, do not think that I am tired of the 
work ; T was only very much hurried to get all done 
in time for my Mother's box. Mr. Satche's speech 
was never touched till within the last two hours. 
Of course I was obliged to send the foul copy un- 
read; but it is the facts only that you want, and those 
you have got; no matter in what language, if you 
can but read it. All you desired me to do, is, I think, 
now sent. I do ndt wonder you are disappointed in 
Klopstock's prose: it seemed to me in general dull. 
His wife, I think, writes with more ease. I thought 
it was best to give you every thing, and leave you to 
weed for yourself. I have accordingly been as 
faithful as I could. You must reconcile yourself to 
Fanny. I rather think that Klopstock was more in 
love with her than even with your favourite Meta; at 
least the odes which relate to her, appear to me to be 
the finest. His second wife was a blessing sent by 
heaven, to make him endure existence for the good 



[ m ] 

of the human race. Do not blame him for having 
been fortunate enough, at very different periods of 
his life, to meet with three such women. In truth, 
he is so great a favourite of mine, that I would 
gladly excuse him at any rate. 

" I never read Peters on Job, nor any thing about 
the Hebrew language, except the book of Dr. Ken- 
nicott's which you lent me, and Louth's Prasle&ions. 
Parkhurst has been my only guide, but I fancy he is 
a very good one." 



I afterwards received from Dr. Mumssenand Mrs, 
Klopstock other letters and papers, which delayed our 
intended publication. Some of these were translated 
by Miss S — , but others did not arrive till she was 
too ill to attend too them. 

As a specimen of Miss S — 's translations from 
the Hebrew Bible, I insert Jonah's prayer, and the 
last chapter of Habbakkuk. I do not presume to 
form any judgment with regard to these transla- 
tions; but they were shewn to a gentleman who is 
well acquainted with the language, and who was 
requested to give his opinion of them. He said that 
the author had certainly an extraordinary knowledge 



[ I2S ] 

of Hebrew; that he thought him rather too free for 
a biblical translator, but that he shewed great ac- 
quaintance with the language, as well as a refined 
taste, and that many of his conjectures were emi- 
nently happy. This opinion was formed entirely 

from a critical examination of the work, without 
any knowledge, of the author; whose acquaintance 
with the language would certainly have appeared 
much more extraordinary, had this Gentleman 
known that* these translations, and many others from 
the same sacred book, were the work of a Young 
Lady who never received any instruction with regard 
to the Hebrew language from any peTson whatever. 
She had no idea of ever offering them to the public, 
and it is now done principally to shew with what 
attention she pursued this most interesting of all 
studies, and how well she adhered to the resolution 
she had formed, to let the Word of God be her 
chief study, and all others subservient to it. She 
translated some chapters in Genesis, the whole book 
of Job, many of the Psalms, some parts of the 
Prophets, &c. She spent some time with me in the 
years 1802 and 1803, when she brought me her 
translation of Job, and many observations on differ- 
ent parts of the Old Testament. We had much 






[ 129 ] 

conversation on such subjects, from which I always 
derived information as well as delight. She had 
shewn me her translation of the eleventh chapter of 
Genesis, in the year 1797, when she was only twenty 
years old ,♦ and as it differs considerably from that 
in the English Bible, I requested a friend to shew 
it to Mrs. Carte r, who said that the idea was new 
to her, but she thought the words might bear that 
interpretation. I was afterwards informed that Sir 
William Jones had given the same interpretation to 
that chapter. I do not know whether it is men- 
tioned in the works of that great man, from which 
Miss S — afterwards derived much information, and 
of which she always spoke with enthusiastic admi- 
ration ; but they were not then published. 



" JONAH's PRAYER, 
« c. ii. v. 2. 

* I call on Jehovah from my prison, 
And He will hear me; 
From the womb of the grave I cry, 
Thou hearest ray voice. 

K 



[ 130 ] 

Thou has cast me into wide waters in the depth of the sea, 

And the floods surround me ; 

All thy dashing and thy rolling waves 

Pass over me. s 

And I said I am expelled 

From before thine eyes ; 

that I might once more behold 
Thy holy temple! 

The waters on every side threaten my life, 

The deep surrounds me ; 

Sea-weed is the *binding of my head 

1 am going down to the clefts of the mountains. 
The earth has shut her bars 

Behind me for ever. 

But thou wilt raise my soul from corruption, 

Jehovah, my God! 

In the fading away of my life, 

I think upon Jehovah ; 

And my prayer shall come unto Thee 

In thy holy temple. 

They who serve false gods 

Forsake the fountain of mercy; 

But I with the voice of praise 

Will sacrifice to Thee. 

What I have vowed I will perform, 

Salvation is Jehovah's!" 

* The binding of the head was a preparation for burial. 



I 131 ] 

" HABAKKUK. 



' The two first chapters of Habakkuk contain a 
prophecy of the invasion of Judea by the Chaldeans, 
and of the vengeance which God will take on them 
for the evils they inflift on his people, whom He 
promts He will not utterly forsake; « for the earth 
shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the 
Lokd, as the waters cover the sea;" referring to 
Ae eleventh chapter of Isaiah, which contains a 
clear predion of the Messiah. The third chapter 
«■ an ode, apparently intended to be sung by two 
persons, or two companies. No I. representing 
the Prophet foretelling what is to happen to the 
Jews.. No . „. some om recouming th£ 

works and deliverances already performed by God 
as reasons for trusting that He will again deliver his 
People. I„ the e onc]usion both ^ .^ ^ 
chorus of praise. 

" The first division is a predion of the comin. 
-£>.«. It is answered by . ^ on « 
UOD S aauaI appearance on Mount Sinai 

■neilL heW ^ ,e,,SOfeVi,Simpendin S-->«e 
ne,gh ounng natl0 n, Answered by an account of 

t'- deluge, when the ark was saved upon the waves. 



[ 132 ] 

" The third, a threat of vengeance on the ene- 
mies of God. Answered by the judgments in- 
flicted on Egypt, when the Israelites were brought 
out in safety. 

" The fourth refers immediately to the threatened 
invasion by the Chaldeans. The answer is plain: 
I will yet trust in the Lord, who will at length 
deliver me from my enemies. 

" The whole concludes with a chorus of praise." 



" A SONG IN PARTS,* 
«• BY HABAKKUK THE PROPHET, 
M UPON JUDGMENTS, OR MAGNIFICENT WORKS. 
I. 

« Jekovah! I have heard thy report, 

fl have seen, Jehovah! thy work. 

In the midst of years Thou wilt cause him to live, 

In the midst of years Thou wilt give knowledge, 

In trembling Thou wilt cause to remember mercy. 

* "A Song in Parts:" may not H/SFT* of which the meaning 
is, " division," " coming between," &c. mean " a divided piece,** 
'♦a dialogue?" 

tTraVorV-jtfTQu.? 



[ 133 ] 

II. 

« The Almighty came from the south, 

And the Holy One from Mount Paran. Selah. 

His glory covered the heavens, 

And his splendour filled the earth. 

And the brightness was as the light; 

Rays darted from his hands, 

And from the *cloud, the abode of 'his power; 

Before Him went the pestilence, 

And glowing fire came forth from his feet. 

He stood, and measured the earth, 

He beheld, and explored the nations. 

And the durable mountains burst asunder, 

The ancient hills fell down, 

His paths in days of old. 

I. 

K I have seen the tents of Cushan under affliction, 
The curtains of the land of Midian shake. 

ii. 
* Was Jehovah incensed in the floods? 
Truly in the floods was thy wrath, 
Verily in the waters thy fury; 

But thou madest thy chariot of salvation to ride on the 
swift ones, 

* " The cloud which accompanied the appearance of Jskqvah, 



L 134 ] 

Then didst thou set up to view thy bow, 

The pledge to the tribes for thy word. Selah. 

The floods ploughed vallies in the earth; 

The mountains saw Thee, they travailed, 

Torrents of water gushed forth. 

The abyss uttered his voice, 

The sun lift up his hands on high, 

The moon stopped in her mansion, 

At the brightness of thy flying arrows, 

At the lightning of thy flashing spear. 

I. 

" In indignation thou wilt tread the earth, 
In fury thou wilt stamp the nations, 

ii. 
" Thou wentest forth for the salvation of thy people, 
The salvation of thine anointed. 

Thou didst cut off the first-born from the house of the wicked, 
Thou didst provoke the stubborn to bending. Selah. 

Thou didst strike the fountain with his< rod, 
*They were scattered, f they came forth like a whirlwind, 
To destroy their flourishing crops, 
While the food of the oppressed was in safety. 
Thou didst walk thy horses through the sea, 
Troubling the great waters* 

* The frogs scattered over the land. ' 

f The flies, locusts, &c. 



[ 1S5 J 

I. 

« I heard, and my bowels were moved, 
At the sound my lips quivered, 
Rottenness entered into my bones, 
And they trembled beneath me; 
While I groaned for the day of tribulation, 
The coming up of the people to assault us. 

ii. 

" Though the fig-tree do not blossom, 
And there be no fruit on the vine; 
Though the produce of the olive fail, 
And the parched field yield no food; 
Though the flock be cut off from the fold, 
And there be no cattle in the stalls; 
Yet I will rejoice in Jehovah, 
I will exult in God, my Saviour. 



chorus. 
" Jehovah my Lord is my strength, 
He will set my feet as the deer's, 
He will make me to walk on high places.'* 



w To the Conqueror of my Assailants; 
or, 
To Him who causeth me to triumph in my afE|icti©ns» ,? 



[ 136 ] 

Continual study of the Hebrew poetry probably 
suggested this Hymn; which is dated Feb. 18, 1803. 

" O Thou! who commandest the storm, 

And stillest its rage with a v/ord ; 

Who dark'nest the earth with thy clouds, 

And call'st forth the sun in his strength ; 

Who hurlest the proud from his throne, 

And liftest the poor from the dust; 

Who sendest afflictions for good, 

And blessings at times for a curse; 

Whose ways are impervious to man, 

Whose decrees we've no power to withstand; — 

Thou hast plac'd me in poverty's vale, 

Yet giv'n me contentment and bliss. 

Should'st Thou e'er set me up on the hill* 

O let not my heart be elate ; 

But humility ever abide, 

And gratitude rule in my breast ; 

Let me feel for the woes of the poor, 

Which now I've no pow'r to relieve ; 

Let compassion not end with a tear, 

But charity work for thy sake ; 

And the streams of beneficence fall, 

Enriching the valley beneath ; 

Then though Thou should'st wrap me in clouds, 

And threaten the hill with a storm; 

Yet the sunshine of peace shall break forth, 

And the summit reflect its last ray." 



[ 137 ] 

I am not sure that the following reflections are 
original. They may perhaps be translated from the 
German; but the sentiments with regard to the 
weakness of human reason, and the absolute neces- 
sity of divine assistance, would certainly please Miss 
S — , as they are perfectly in unison with her own 
ideas. 



u It is declared in the Scriptures that the natural 
man knoweth not the thinos of God, neither can 
he comprehend them ; and I am convinced that this 
is true. God only requires the heart and its affec- 
tions, and after these are wholly devoted to Him, 
He himself worketh all things within it and for it. 
* My son, give me thy heart ;' and all the rest is con- 
formity and obedience. This is the simple ground 
of all religion, which implies a re-union of the soul 
to a principle which it had lost in its corrupt and 
fallen state. Mankind have opposed this doctrine, 
because it has a direct tendency to lay very low the 
pride and elevation of the heart, and the perverse- 
ness of the will, and prescribes a severe mortification 
to the passions ; it will be found, notwithstanding, 
either in time or eternity, a most important truth. 



( 138 ] 

ei In the Holy Scriptures nothing appears to have 
a reference to the great work of salvation, but a rec- 
titude of the heart, and subjection of the will ; and 
it is clear to my understanding that it should be so: 
for the mere operations of the head, the lucubrations 
of reason on divine subjects, are as different as men* 
The natural powers of man may be sanctified by the 
influences of religion in the soul, and cease from 
opposition in matters wherein formerly they took 
supreme direction; but until they are in awful silence 
before God, the work of redemption is unfelt and 
unknown. 

" Religion is an universal concern; the only 
important business of our lives. The learned and 
the ignorant are equally the object of it; and it is 
highly becoming the Father of Spirits, the friend of 
man, that all the spirits which he has made, should 
be equal candidates for his regard ; that his mercy 
should operate upon a principle, of which mankind 
are equal partakers. If the reason or the under- 
standing were alone capable of religious discernment, 
nine-tenths of the world would be excluded from his 
providence ; but not so does his mercy operate. He 



[ 139 ] 

influences by love, and the affections are the only 
objects of it. 

st Look into the opinions of men, contemplate 
their great diversity, their compleat opposition to 
each other; and where shall the serious, the reflecting 
mind find a peaceful station to rest upon? Where 
shall it find c the shadow of a mighty rock, in a 
weary land' of fluctuating devices and tempests of 
opinion? Not in human literature, not in the in- 
ventions of men ; but in silence before the God of 
our lives, in pure devotion of the heart, and in pros- 
tration of the soul. The knee bends before the 
majesty of Omnipotence, and all the powers of the 
mind say, Amen ! — In matters so important as pure 
religion, the salvation of the immortal soul, it is 
highly worthy of Divine Wisdom that He should 
take the supreme direction to Himself alone, and not 
leave any part of the work to the device of man; for 
it is evident to every candid enquirer, that whenever 
he interferes he spoils it. Religion is of so pure and 
spotless a nature, that a touch will contaminate it. 
It is uniform, consistent, and of the same com- 
plexion and character in all nations. Languages 
and customs may greatly differ ; but the language of 



[ 140 ] 

pure devotion of the heart to its Maker is one and 
the same over the face of the whole earth. It is 
acknowledged and felt c through the unity of the 
spirit, in the bond of peace.' There is a harmony 
and consistency in the works of God, external and 
internal ; the external operations of nature are 
strictly typical of internal things ; the visible of the 
invisible world. 

" I am convinced that the Author of our being 
has left nothing to man with respect to the formation 
of religion in the mind of a child, but the opening 
his path, and clearing his road from the thorns and 
briars of contagious example. The influences of 
man consist in pure example, dispassionate per- 
suasion, and an early subjection of the will to what 
is written in the law of God. The enlightening the 
understanding, the purification of the heart, the ac- 
complishing the course of rectitude to the invisible 
world, and qualifying the soul for beatitude amongst 
the spirits of the just, must be left to Supreme 
wisdom and mercy. The sciences are of very par- 
tial concern, are in the hands of a few, and are the 
proper objects of human wisdom, and attainable by 
its powers alone 5 but their centre and their circum- 



I 1*1 J 

scription is in time. From high attainments in 
these the mind of man is taught to wonder, but I 
much question whether he is often taught to adore. 
They are too apt to raise the mind, to engage a de- 
voted idolatrous attention, and fix a supercilious dis- 
regard to the humble appearance of a meek and quiet 
spirit; and if it were possible that they should ac- 
company the soul from time to eternity, they would 
prove asubject of humiliation before an eye that is 
more extensively opened; yet these may be sancti- 
fied by the influence of religion. " 

I do not know when Miss S — read Mr. Locke's 

Essay on Human Understanding, but it gave occa- 

i 

sion to the following remarks, which are prefaced 

with a modest allusion to her own inferiority to this 

great writer, and were never, I believe, seen by any 

body till after her deach. 



t( A fly found fault with one of the finest works of man.* 

tc Locke's ideas on Infinity appear to me to 
want his usual clearness. Perhaps the fault is in 
my own understanding. I will try to unravel my 



[ 142 ] 

thoughts on the subject, and see on which side the 
error lies. 

" His manner of representing to himself infinity 
is to add together certain known quantities, whether 
of space or duration, as miles, or years, and when 
tired with multiplication, he contemplates abound- 
less remainder. This, indeed, serves to bewilder the 
mind in the idea of incomprehensible immensity; 
the remainder which is always left, is a cloud that 
conceals the end ; but so far from convincing us there 
is none, the very idea of a remainder carries with it 
that of an end ; and when we have in thought passed 
through so large a part of space or duration, we 
must be nearer the end than when we set out. I 
think the cause of Mr. Locke's confusion on this 
subject is his use of the word parts* • He says that 
the parts of expansion and duration are not separa- 
ble, even in thought. Then why say they have 
parts? Surely whatever has parts, may be divided 
into those parts, and what is not divisible, even 
in imagination, has no parts. He forgets his own 
excellent definition of time and place, that c they are 
only ideas of determinate distances, from certain 
known points, fixed in. distinguishable, sensible 
things, and supposed to keep the same distance one 



C 143 ] 

from another ;' only marks set up for our use while 
on earth, to help us to arrange things in our narrow 
understandings by shewing their relative situations, 
and not really existing in nature. This he forgets, 
and having granted that duration and expansion have 
parts, he applies his minutes and his inches to mea- 
sure eternity and infinite space. To prove the 

fallacy of this method, suppose 10,000 diameters of 
the earth to be some part, a 10th or 10,000th part 
of infinite space; then infinite space is exactly 10 
times, or 10,000 times, 10,000 diameters of the earth, 
and no more. Infinite space has certain bounds, 
which is a contradiction. There is no impropriety 
in taking a foot rule to measure the ocean, because 
multiplied a certain number of times, it will give 
the extent of the ocean; but no multiple of what is 
finite can ever produce infinity ; for though number 
abstractedly be infinite, a series of numbers may go 
on continually increasing, yet no one of those 
numbers can express infinity, each being in itself a 
determined quantity. When in the beginning of 
a series, two are added together, each of those two 
must be circumscribed, consequently the whole cir-. 

cumscribed ad infinitum. On the contrary, unity 

seems much more capable of expressing infinity^ 



[ 144 ] 

though we finite beings, incapable at present of 
comprehending it, can form but a vague and inade- 
quate idea. Unity has no bounds, nor, as Mr. 
Locke says, any shadow of variety or composition; 
and to appeal at once to the highest authority, it is 
the sign that the Great Creator has used, as being 
the most proper to convey an idea of Himself to 
our finite understandings. 

<c Succession, without which Mr. Locke says he 
cannot conceive duration, is still a division of it into 
parts. I believe his opinion to be right, that our 
only perception of duration is from the succession of 
our own ideas; but is our perception of it the cause 
of its existence ? No more than our walking over the 
ground is the cause of its extension. He grants 
this, when he says, that during sleep we have no 
perception of duration, but the moment when we 
fall asleep, and that in which we awake, seem to us 
to have no distance. Since then there may be 
duration without our perception of succession, may 
it not be actually without succession? Where all 
things are eternal, there can be no relation of the 
end of one to the beginning of another ; conse- 
quently no time, the measure of a relation which 



[ 145 ] 

does not exist. There is another case in which 
Mr. Locke thinks a man would perceive no suc- 
cession in duration; — if it were possible for him to 
keep his mind entirely fixed on one idea. Does not 
this apply to the Supreme Being, who having al- 
ways all ideas present to his mind, can perceive no 
succession ? As He fills at once all space, He exists 
at once through all eternity. I do not pretend to 
have discovered this by the chain of my own reason- 
ing; it is suggested to me by the name which God 
gives us of Himself. He tells us, not only that He 
is (T ° ™> the existing; but also that He is fnfP, 
existence, present, future, and past, in one: which 
seems to me to mean, not merely that He can look 
forward or backward into a record of events; but 
that there is no succession in his duration; that what 
we call present, past, and future, are always equally 
present; that all is perfect unity; there is no variety 
or shadow of changing. Many passages might be 
brought from Scripture to confirm this opinion, and 
some, which I think are not intelligible without it ; 
such as, ( a thousand years are with Him as one 
day;' c before Abraham was, I am;* s time 
shall be no longer;' € there was no place found ? 
answer exactly to Locke's definition above, and prove 

L 



[ 146 ] 

that there is no division in eternity or infinite space* 
The dispute about foreknowledge and free-will 
might be settled by viewing the subject in this light. 
If there be no succession in the existence of God, 
if the past and future be equally present, He sees the 
whole course of our lives at once, as clearly as any 
particular moment which we now call present, with* 
out influencing our actions more at one point of 
time that at another. The infinite divisibility of 
matter too may be denied, on the ground that what 
admits of division or multiplication, cannot be 
infinite. 

W I hav£ observed another inaccuracy in Mr. 
Locke, as spots are most visible on the whitest 
substance v 

" He defines knowledge to be f the perception 
of the agreement or disagreement of any of our 
ideas/ So far well: but to be sure that it is real 
knowledge, he says, f we must be sure those ideas 
agree with the reality of things.' This is also- 
true^ but as we have no perception of things but 
by means of sensation, and we have often, on a 
closer inspection, discovered that our senses have 
deceived us, how can we know that they do not 
always deceive us r If we cannot know this, we 



[ m 1 

cannot be sure that our ideas agree with the reality 
of things, consequently cannot attain to any real 
knowledge during this life. We can only believe 
testimony which upon experience we have reason to 
think true, and can be said absolutely to know no- 
thing but what God has been pleased to reveal. If 
it be asked how we know that He has revealed any 
thing to us, the answer is, we can only believe it; 
but on examining the testimony, we find there is 
full as good proof that we have revelations from God 
Himself in the Scriptures, as that any object of sen- 
sation is what it appears to be. If therefore we 
grant our assent to the one, why refuse it to the 
other? And having once established that we have 
revelations from God Himself in the Scriptures, it 
follows, that what is so revealed must be true 5 and 
that from thence we may reap real knowledge. 
Whatever else we call knowledge, is either mere 
conjecture, or derived through some channel or 
other from revelation. Of this I am the more con- 
vinced by observing ideas current amongst men, 
which it seems impossible they should originally 
form. Such is the idea of a God, of infinity, and 
eternity; for notwithstanding the boasted powers of 

L 2 



[ 14S ] 

human reason, and the light of nature;*— since I 
find them incapable of discovering the essence of the 
most familiar object, or of taking the first step in 
any science, — I have great reason to doubt their 
power of discovering the being of God ; and infi- 
nity and eternity never coming within their percep- 
tion, I am persuaded men never could form such 
ideas. Therefore if they were led by the contem- 
plation of nature to conjecture there must be some 
cause of all the wonders it presents, they would still 
seek for some cause of that cause, and merely be 
lost in endless 'speculations. If it be objected, that 
some of the ancient philosophers had the idea of 
infinity, and that the existence of a God is believed 
by most nations: I answer, it was not human reason 
made those discoveries ; if it were, why have not all 
nations equal lights, all having the same guide? On 
the contrary, I have no doubt that whatever vague 
ideas of Deity are found in any country, might, if 
we knew the exact history of its inhabitants, be 
traced to the original revelation to Adam, to Noah, 
he. preserved or corrupted by tradition. This has 
been done in a great measure with respect to some 

* « I wish to ask what Mr. Locke means by the light of 
nature, when he has proved that we have no innate ideas? 



[ 149 ] 

of the Indian nations, by Sir William Jones and 
others, and it still remains a fine field for future 
research. If we examine thosa nations of antiquity 
which had the most nearly adequate ideas of the 
Deity, we shall find them to be those which were 
favoured with the most frequent revelations. The 
Jews clearly stand foremost in both these respects ; 
and why should they, who were never thought su- 
perior to the Greeks in abilities, be supposed capable 
of more sublime ideas, unless they received them 
from revelation ? Why should some of the Greek 
philosophers come so much nearer the truth than 
others of not inferior capacities, but that besides 
the vulgar belief of their country, (the corruption of 
original revelation,) they received instruction from 
some of the Jews, or from the study of the Sibylline 
Oracles, and the verses of Orpheus ? If, on the con- 
trary, we look at those nations furthest removed in 
time and place from the centre of dispersion, as the 
savages of America, Africa, &c. those particularly 
who, having had the least commerce with the rest of 
the world, come nearest to our ideas of nature ; we 
find that their reason, though unwarped by the pre- 
judices of education, far from leading them to su- 
perior knowledge, and a more intimate acquaintance 



C 150 ] 

with God and his works than is to be met with 
in civilized society, has left them but one degree 
above the brutes they associate with. Original re- 
velation, not only of the existence of a God, but 
of all arts and sciences, except perhaps those most 
immediately necessary to existence, being in some 
entirely worn out, in others so mutilated and de- 
faced as scarcely to be recognized; — in the midst of 
this darkness no genius starts up with the discovery 
of abstract truth ; there does not seem even to be 
any progress in improvement; for the accounts of 
some of them at this day agree exactly with what 
was written of them ages ago. If then man were 
originally created in the savage state, how came the 
improvements we observe amongst ourselves, since, 
when reduced again to that state, we see him inca- 
pable of taking the first step towards getting out of 
it? I think this is the fair way of stating the parallel 
between human reason and divine revelation ; for 
though all knowledge would still come from God, 
if He made man capable of discovering it, it seems 
to me plain that He has not done so; and therefore 
we should do well to apply to his word for instruc- 
tion in the first place, as being the only fountain of 
real knowledge," ' 



[ 151 ] 

The family had resided five years at C , and 

had enjoyed very good health. Elizabeth was par- 
ticularly fond of the place, and the air seemed to 
agree with her better than any other. The beauty 
of the surrounding scenery, her enthusiastic admi- 
ration of such magnificent and sublime views as that 
country affords, and her taste for drawing, certainly 
led her to trust too much to the strength of her ex- 
cellent constitution, and to use more exercise than 
was good for her; but it did not appear to disagree 
with her, and I do not know that there was any 
cause of alarm in regard to her health, till the fatal 
evening in July 1805, which is mentioned by Mrs* 
S — in a letter to Dr. R — , to which I refer the 
reader.* It was on the 17 th of October 1805, that 
Miss S — arrived at Bath in the sad state which that 
letter describes. What / felt at this meeting may 
be easily imagined. During the few days which 
she spent with me, the skill of Dr. G — , and the 
care of the tenderest of parents, appeared to be at- 
tended with all the benefit we could expect. She 
had lost her voice, as well as the use of her limbs ; 
but she enjoyed society, and expressed particular 

* See Appendix. 



[ 152 ] 

pleasure in meeting Mr. De Luc, who spent some 
hours with us. When she was able to be removed 
to the house of her kind friends Mr. and Mrs. C — , 
I went to Clifton, where a dangerous illness detained 
me, till my extreme anxiety to see Miss S — before 
she left Bath, determined me to return on the 21st 
of December. My dear friend came to me the next 
morning, and appeared so much better in every 
respect, that I was led to cherish hopes which les- 
sened the pain of our approaching parting. She 
could then converse with ease and pleasure, and 
walk without difficulty, and the last hours which I 
was ever to enjoy with her in this world, were some 
of the most delightful that I ever spent. She anxi- 
ously wished to be removed to Sunbury to see her 
amiable sister before her marriage ; and after sleep- 
ing one night at my house, she set out for that place 
with Mrs. S — , and I saw her no more. 

A letter written immediately after her removal 
from Bath, to her kind friend Mrs. C — , shews how 
much better she was at that time, and that she was 
able to resume some of her favourite pursuits. 



[ 153 ] 

"To Mrs. C— . 

" Sunbury, Dec. 28, 1805. 
" Dear Madam, 

" Having no excuse of illness for employing an 
amanuensis, I take the pen myself to thank you for 
all your goodness to me, of which I assure you I 
shall always retain a grateful sense. The good 
effects of your nursing now appear. I was certainly 
somewhat fatigued with the journey, and for the 
first two days after I arrived was but indifferent, but 
yesterday and to-day I am astonishingly well, have 
learnt to sleep, and cough but little. I have been 
thus particular in the account of myself, because, 
from the kind interest you and Mr. C — take in my 
welfare, I know you would wish it, 

< c I am very busy tracing the situation of Troy, in 
Mr. GelPs book, and am very well satisfied with it. 
Yesterday we took an airing to Hampton-Court and 
Twickenham. The day was delightful, and the air 
seemed to give me new life. 

" K — returns her best thanks for all your good 
wishes, and hopes to make her acknowledgments 
more fully in person. You have perhaps heard that 



[ 154 ] 

she is to be married on Wednesday, and go to 



" With grateful and affe&ionate respe&s to Mr, 
C — > I remain, dear Madam, 

« Your ever obliged, &c. E. S." 



For some time after she arrived at Sir J. L — 's at 
Sunbury, Elizabeth was able to enjoy the agreeable 
society which that house affords, to walk out a little, 
and to take constant exercise in a carriage; but these 
favourable appearances did not continue long. I 
had a letter, in which she hinted at the dangerous 
state in which she evidently thought she was ; and 
an extract from one written to her beloved sister 
speaks the same language with regard to her health. 

" March 23 M. 
" I want you, my K — , to be ascomposed on this 
subjecl, as I am myself. You must not be fright- 
ened when you hear I am worse, nor because it is 
said that I am better, suppose that I am to be immedi- 
ately well; for both mean nothing, and perhaps last 
but a few hours. I have myself a decided opinion 
of the probability of the event, and I see no kind- 



[ 155 ] 

ness in feeding you with false hopes. I wish you to 
be prepared for what you, though not I, would call 
the worst, I do not mean that there are any 
symptoms to cause immediate alarm, but the con- 
stitution seems to be wearing out; that, however, 
may be restored by the warm air of the spring and 
summer. Assure Mr. A— of my esteem and re- 
gard, and tell him I shall never forget his kind 
attentions to me, 8tc." 



To her friend Mrs. W— she writes thus : 

" C , July 4, 1806. 

" I am sure, my dear Mrs. W — has not attr- 
buted to unkindness or neglect, or any of tho?e 
impossible things, my keeping unanswered a mot 
kind letter of her's, from January to July. Tte 
case is this. I thought you heard enough of mt, 
while my mother was at Bath. After she came o 
Sunbury, we were always going, and I was nev<r 
well enough, or quiet enough, to write to you asl 
liked; besides, I thought I should write from Ma- 
lock, where I should fancy that you were presen, 
and that I was talking to you. Often, indeed, dd 



[ 1^6 ] 

we talk of you, and wish for you there ; but there 
again there was no quiet, and I never felt equal to 
writing, or doing any thing. In short, I have never 
had a pen in my hand from the time I leftSunbury, 
till now; and now, if my father were not going 
to-morrow, I should put off writing, in hopes of 
"being more able to say something to you some other 
day. This, however, I can say to-day, or any day; — 
that though my strength has failed, my memory and 
affections have not; and that while they remain, 
\ou will ever hold your place in the one, and your 
share in the other. I am much concerned at the 

accounts which I hear of you. It is very tedious 

tp suffer so long; but we shall all be better soon. 

u As to myself, of whom I know you will wish 
U hear something, I do very well when the sun 
siines, and the wind is in the south; I seem then to 
iihale new life at every pore; but if a northern blast 
siring up, (my original enemy,) I seem to shrink 
aid wither like a blighted leaf. To avoid this 
elemy, I am obliged to keep the house, which is 
lit at all favourable to a recovery. I have been as 

, I think, since I came home, as I have ever been; 
bit better the last few days, which have been fine 
©>es. My mother is all kindness and attention to 



[ 1-7 ] 

me, and T — is the best nurse in the world ; but aft 
this care will turn to no account, unless the summer 
should happen to be a fine one. I am perfectly easy 
as to the event, and only wish I were not so trou- 
blesome to others. You would love L — , if you 

knew how thoughtful and attentive he has been to 
me. He will be a great loss to me, and to my 
mother a still greater; for he is her constant compa- 
nion, and a very entertaining one. My mother de- 
sires me to say every thing that is kind for her ; but 
indeed I have so much to say for myself, and am so 
totally incapable of saying it, that I must leave you 
to fill up the blank with what you know of us both, 
not forgetting that Mrs. B — is always to have her 
full share. Your ever affectionate &c." 



From the time that Mrs. S — left Bath, which 
was about the end of March, the accounts which I 
received in all her letters, most strongly painted the 
anguish which her too tender heart felt, while watch- 
ing the gradual approach of the dreaded event which 
she had from the first considered as inevitable. On 
the 9 th of July, Capt S — and his youngest son L— 
spent some hours with me in their way to Plymouth., 



[ 158 ] 

and brought me a letter from Elizabeth, of which 
the following is an extract. It is the last that I ever 
received from that dear hand! 

<c leaving determined to send a few lines by my 
father to my best of friends, before your kind and 
most welcome letter arrived, I am not now dis- 
obeying your commands by writing, but fulfilling 
my own previous intention. I can never thank you 
enough for all the kind interest you take in me and 
my health. I wish my friends were as composed 
about it as I am; for thanks to you and your ever 
dear and respected mother, I have learnt to look on 
life and death with an equal eye, and knowing where 
my hope is fixed, to receive every dispensation of 
Providence with gratitude, as intended for my ulti- 
mate good. The only wish I ever form, and even 
that I check, is that my illness might be more 
severe, so it might be shortened; that I might 
fiot keep my father and mother so long in suspense 
with regard to all their plans, and occasion so much 
trouble and anxiety to my friends. — I should like to 
say much to you on this subject, but I am pressed 
for time, and as you may see, I do not make a very 
good hand of writing, — You enquire how the change 



[ 159 ] 

of weather affected me? As much as you can pos- 
sibly suppose. During the hot weather I really 
thought I should get rid of the cough; but with the 
cold, every symptom returned as strong as ever. 
Yesterday and to-day have been warm and pleasant. 
I get into the tent, where I now am, and revive* 
We shall indeed lose a great comfort when L — * goes 
He has been most kindly attentive to me. &c. &c." 

In my answer to this letter I did not attempt to 
deceive my friend; I knew her too well to think it 
necessary or right to do so. I wrote as to a Christian 
on the verge of eternity, and whose whole life, as 
her mother justly observes, had been, a preparation 
for death. I received her thanks for my letter, in a 
most kind message conveyed to me by Mrs. S— , 
who spoke in every letter of increasing illness, — till 
in one which she kindly addressed to my friend Mrs. 
D — , she said, "this morning the angel spirit fled!" 
Aug. 7 i 1806. 

* Her youngest brother; who was then going to sea for 
the first time. 



APPENDIX. 



M 



Letters from Mrs. S to the Rev. Dr. 22——> 3 

written after the Death of Miss S * 



LETTER I. 

« C , 180?. 

u T Am gratified^ my dear Sir, in complying with 

A your wish, because the request proves that the 
esteem which you professed for my beloved daugh- 
ter's character, is not buried with her in the graven 
and because it justifies me to myself for dwelling 
so much on a subject on which I have a melancholy 
pleasure in reflecting. I shall repress the feelings and 
partiality of a parent, and merely state a few simple 
facts, connected with the progress of her mind. 

" Elizabeth was born at B , in the county of 

Durham, in December 1776. At a very early age 

she discovered that love of reading, and that close 

application to whatever she engaged in, which, 

M 2 



[ 164 ] 

marked her character through life. She was accus- 
tomed, when only three years old, to leave an elder 
brother and younger sister to play and amuse them- 
selves^ whilst she eagerly seized on such books as a 
nursery library commonly affords, and made herself 
mistress of their contents. At four years of age she 
read extremely well. What in others is usually the 
effect of education and habit, seemed born with her; 
from a very babe the utmost regularity was obser- 
vable in all her actions; whatever she did was well 
done, and with an apparent reflection far beyond her 
years. I mention these minute circumstances, be- 
cause I know that whatever pourtrays her character, 
will interest the friend for whose perusal I write. 

u In the beginning of 1782, we removed into a 
distant county, at the earnest intreaty of a blind 
relation; and in the following year, my attendance 
on him- becoming so necessary as daily to engage 
several hours, at his request I was induced to 
take a young lady, whom he wished to serve, in 
consequence of her family having experienced some 
severe misfortunes. This lady was then scarcely 
sixteen, and I expected merely to have found a 
companion for my children during my absence ; 
tyut-her abilities exceeded her years, and she became 



C 165 ] 

their governess during our stay in Suffolk, which 
was about eighteen months. On the death of my 
relation in 1784, we returned to B — , and remained 
there till June in the following year, when we re- 
moved to Piercefield. In the course of the pre- 
ceding winter Elizabeth had made an uncommon 
progress in music. From the time of our quitting 
Suffolk, till the spring of 1786, my children had 
no instruction except from myself; but their former 
governess then returned to me, and continued in 
the family three years longer. By her the children 
were instructed in French, and in the little Italian 
which she herself then understood. I mention 
these particulars to prove how very little instru&ion 
in languages my daughter received, and that the 
knowledge she afterwards acquired of them was the 
effect of her own unassisted study. 

fe It frequently happens that circumstances appa- 
rently trifling determine our character, and some- 
times even our fate in life. I always thought that 
Elizabeth was first induced to apply herself to the 
study of the learned languages, by accidentally 
hearing that the late Mrs. B — acquired some know- 
ledge of Hebrew and Greek, purposely to read the 
Holy Scriptures in the original languages. In th« 



C 166 ] 

summer of 1789, this most excellent woman, with 
her youngest daughter, spent a month at Piercefield, 
and I have reason to hail it as one of the happiest 
months of my life. From that period to the,hour 
of her death, I had in Mrs. B— the steadiest, the 
mOst affectionate of friends ; a friend who had at 
heart not only the temporal, hut the eternal happi- 
ness of myself and family; and who, in proportion as 
summer friends flew off, became yet more attached 
lo me. " ; 



" From the above-mentioned visit I date the turn 
of study which Elizabeth ever after pursued, and 
which, I firmly believe, the amiable conduct of our 
guests first led her to delight in. Those who knew 
the late Mrs. B — , could not withhold from her their 
love and reverence. With young persons she had a 
manner peculiar to herself, which never failed to 
secure their affections, at the moment she conveyed 
to their minds the most important instructions. 
The Word of God was her chief study and delight, 
and she always endeavoured to make it so to others. 
The uncommon strength of her understanding, and 
the clearness with which she explained the most ab- 
struse subjects, ensured her the admiration and respect 



[ 167 ] 

of all who heard her ; and none listened with more 
attention than Elizabeth, on whose young mind 
every good and amiable principle was afterwards 
strongly impressed by Mrs. H. B — . My daughter 
was then only twelve years old \ but her superior- 
talents and turn of mind gained the valuable af- 
fection of her much older friend, who never lost an 
opportunity of improving the former, and of forming 
the latter. As a proof of the correctness of this as- 
sertion, I send you a letter written by Mrs. H. B— - 
to my daughter on her being confirmed, and which 
I have reason to believe made all the impression my 
excellent friend intended, and was ever afterwards 
the standard by which she formed her character. 
"lam, dear Sir, &c." 



Mrs. H. B— to Miss S , 

\Sent to Dr. R — with the preceding Letter.^ 

<f My dear Friend, Dec. 1791. 

" You are now entering on what appears to me 

the most important period of life, and let me hope 

that my anxiety for your happiness, and the tender 

affection which I feel for you, will plead my excuse 



[ 168 J 

for troubling you with a few observations upon it. 
In childhood, our actions are under the controul of 
others, and we are scarcely answerable for them j 
but from the period when we renew our baptismal 
vow in Confirmation, and solemnly dedicate ourselves 
to the service of our Creator and Redeemer by re- 
ceiving the Holy Eucharist, we must be considered 
as thinking and acting for ourselves ; though still 
subject to the commands, and happy in the advice, 
of our parents. You have, I presume, been suffi- 
ciently instructed in all the necessary articles of faith; 
but I know you think deeply on all subjects, and if 
5rc>u feel any doubts, or see any difficulties, in the 
Christian Religion, this is the time when you should 
endeavour to satisfy yourself with regard to them, 
and perhaps my library might afford you that sa- 
tisfaction, if you would indulge me with your con- 
fidence, and mention them to me. The necessary 
articles of faith appear to me few and simple, and 
rather addressed to the heart than the head. The 
Gospel was preached to the poor and ignorant, as 
well as to the learned; and the seed sprung up and 
bore fruit, whenever it fell on good ground. But 
those who have abilities and opportunity, should 
spare no pains to examine the evidences which have 



C 169 ] 

Convinced some of the wisest men that ever lived, of 
the. divine authority of the Holy Scriptures; and 
such an examination is particularly necessary in the 
present times. When we are convinced that the 
Bible is the word of God, and the rule of our faith 
and practice, nothing remains but to listen with 
reverence and devotion to the divine instru6iion it 
contains, and to believe, on the authority of God, 
what our weak reason could never have discovered, 
nor can fully comprehend. The humble, pious, 
and virtuous mind, which willingly accepts the 
gracious promises of the Gospel, and is fully resol- 
ved to practise the duties it enjoins, will seldom be 
disturbed by those objections to its doctrines which 
have been often answered to the satisfaction of the 
best and wisest men. The Christian religion is so 
suited to a feeling heart, that I think we can want 
no arguments for its truth, except those which are 
drawn from its evident tendency to make us virtuous 
and happy. To love the God who created and re- 
deemed us ; to express our gratitude for infinite 
obligations, by the sincere though imperfect service 
of a few years; to cast all our care on Him who 
careth for us; and, secure in his protection, to banish 
Tevery gloomy apprehension which might disturb our 



[ no ] 

peace;— this surely must appear an easy task to those 
who know and feel the pleasure of even an earthly 
friendship : but when we add to this the certainty 
that our endeavours to please will be not only ac. 
cepted, but rewarded; when every Christian can 
say, e after a few years, perhaps after a few hours, I 
shall, if it is not my own fault, be happy, perfectly 
happy to all eternity;* surely, with such encourage- 
ments and such hopes, no temptation should have 
power to draw us from our duty. Yet when we 
look into the world, when we see how little influence 
these principles have in society, and how seldom 
they guard the heart against the allurements of 
pleasure, or support it under the pressure of afflic- 
tion; it must be evident to every thinking mind, 
that very great and constant care is necessary to 
preserve through life those good resolutions, which I 
believe most people form when they enter into it. 
For this purpose allow me to recommend constant 
devotion, A few minutes spent every morning and 
evening in this duty will be the best preservative 
against the temptations to which we mustbeexposed; 
but in order to make it really useful, it should be 
accompanied with self-examination, and it should be 
followed by such an habitual sense of the presence 



[ ni ] 

of God as may influence our conduct in every part 
of our life. In our gayest as well as in our gravest 
moments ; in our studies, and our pleasures; in the 
tender intercourse of friendship; in the sprightly 
sallies of a conversation which seems only intended 
for amusement; still we should be able to turn our 
thoughts with heartfelt satisfaction to that tender 
Parent to whom we owe all our guiltless pleasures. 
c Whether ye eat or drink, or whatever ye do, do all 
to the glory of God/ The business in which we 
cannot ask his protection and assistance, cannot be 
an innocent pursuit; the amusement for which we 
dare not thank Him, cannot be an innocent pleasure. 
This rule strongly impressed on the mind, and ap- 
plied to every circumstance in life, will be a constant 
guard over virtue in all situations, and a constant 
check to every thought as well as action which i g 
contrary to our duty.— — Such, I think, should be 
the piety of a true Christian; and such piety will 
undoubtedly afford the highest pleasures we are 
capable of feeling in this world, while it guards that 
virtue which will secure our happiness in the next. 
But to entitle ourselves to this intercourse with our 
God, we must carefully and constantly attend to 
the state of our souls, by frequent and diligent self- 



C m i 

examination. As this appears to me a point of great 
importance at all times, and particularly as prepa- 
ratory to receiving the Holy Sacrament, allow me 
to explain more fully what I took the liberty of 
saying when we conversed on this subject 

" At our entrance into life, (by which I mean the 
period which follows the total dependence of child- 
hood,) it is necessary to obtain a just idea of our 
own character, and of our particular duties. No- 
body is so perfect as not to have a tendency to some 
fault. Pride, passion, fretfulness, obstinacy, indo- 
lence, and many other failings, are perhaps born 
with us, and whoever has not discovered one or 
more of these in his heart, certainly does not know 
himself. Let us then, as the first step towards^ 
wisdom and virtue, carefully study our own charac- 
ter, and determine where our principal danger lies; 
and remember, as my beloved Sister observes, that 
* he who has discovered a fault in his character, and 
intreated God's assistance to conquer it, has en- 
gaged Omnipotence on his side.' 

" The next point to be considered is our particu- 
lar situation, and the duties it requires. It is vain 
to suppose we could do better in different eircum- 1 
stances, or to think that our imaginary merits will 



[ 173 3 

cover our real faults; we are not to choose our own 
part in life, but to ad properly that which is as* 
signed to us. What are my particular duties ? How 
can I best serve God? How can I most contribute 
to the happiness of those with whom I am connect- 
ed ? How can I employ my time and my talents to 
the best advantage ? What are the errors into which 
I am most likely to fall ? Do I hurt those whom I 
am most bound to please, by pride, peevishness, or 
contempt; or do I make them happy by constant 
kindness, gentleness, and long-suffering ? These are 
questions which every human being should ask his 
own heart, and which only his own heart can an- 
swer. From an examination of this kind, I should 
wish every one who really aims at Christian perfec- 
tion to make out in writing a plan of life suited 
to his particular situation and character, and reso* 
lutely determine to a& up to it. This requires time 
and reflection; but this once done our task will be 
much easier afterwards. A few minutes every night 
should be spent in considering how far we have 
conformed to that plan through the day, which 
I think is most easily discovered by considering 
how the day has been spent; for every thing, be it 
ever so trifling, if it is to be done at all, may be done 



[ 174 \ 

welt or ill, — Did I attend to my devotions in the 
morning? Have I done good, or contributed to the 
happiness of others ; or have I given pain to any 
human being by unkindness? Have I been surpri- 
sed by those faults, whatever they are, which I have 
most reason to dread; or have I carefully avoided 
them? — Such questions constantly asked, and im- 
partially answered, will prevent our acquiring wrong 
habits; and nothing is unconquerable, which is not 
habitual. Bishop Andrews says, c sleep is so like 
death, that I dare not venture on it without prayer;* 
and I think it would be well if we considered it in 
that light, and made our peace with God at the end 
of every day, as if it were the last we should enjoy. 
I am sure the habit of doing this would greatly lessen 
the horrors of that awful period, when we must make 
up our accounts, however painful it may be to us. 
When habit has made this easy, little more will be 
necessary to guard us against that self-deceit which 
is our most dangerous enemy; but at stated times^ 
as at the beginning of every year, and when we 
intend to receive the Sacrament, it will be useful to 
take a general review of our past life, and compare 
it with the plan we had determined to pursue, in 
order to see how far we have kept the good resa* 



C 115 ] 

tutions we bad formed, arid in what respect it f$ 
most necessary to guard our future condu 61. 

€i Perhaps, my dear young friend, I have said no- 
thing which your own good sense would not point 
out to you much better than I am capable of doing 
it, and I have taken a liberty for which I can only 
plead the advantage which very moderate talents 
must gain from experience. I have lived longer in 
the world than you, and have felt the ill effects of 
many errors which I hope you will avoid; but I have 
also sometimes felt the good effects of those prin- 
ciples, and that line of conduct, which I wish to 
recommend to you, and in which I trust Providence 
will guide you to eternal happiness. 8cc. &c." 



LETTER II. 

Mrs. S — to the Rev. Dr. R • 

u At the age of thirteen, Elizabeth became a sort 
of governess to her younger sisters, for I then parted 
with the only one I ever had, and from that time 
the progress she made in acquiring languages, both 
ancient and modern, was most rapid.-— This degree 



[ 176 ] 

of information, so unusual in a woman, occasioned 
no confusion in her well-regulated mind. She was 
a living library; but locked up except to a chosen 
few. Her talents were f like bales unopened to 
the sun;' and from a want of communication were 
not as beneficial to others as they might have been, 
for her dread of being called a learned lady caused 
such an excess of modest reserve as perhaps formed 
the greatest defeat in her character. But I will go- 
back to the period of which I was speaking. 

H When Elizabeth was fifteen years old, we were 
reading Warrington's History of Wales, in which 
he mentions the death of Llewellyn-ap-GrifTydd, as 
happening on the banks of the Wye, at a place 
which he calls Buillt, and its having been occa- 
sioned by his being pierced with a spear, as he 
attempted to make his escape through a grove. We 
amused ourselves with supposing that Llewellyn's 
death must have happened in our grove, where two 
large stones were erected (as we chose to imagine) 
to commemorate that event ; and that the adjoining 
grounds were from thenceforth called Piercefield. 
This conversation gave rise to a poem, of which Mrs. 
H. B— has a copy, with other papers on the same 
jsubjecl:, for a sight of which I refer you to her. 



ec When a reverse of fortune drove us from Pierce - 
field, my daughter had just entered her seventeenth 
year, an age at which she might have been sup- 
posed to have lamented deeply many consequent 
privations. Of the firmness of her mind on that 
occasion, no one can judge better than yourself; 
for you had an opportunity to observe it, when im- 
mediately after the blow was struck, you offered, 
from motives of generous friendship, to undertake a 
charge which no pecuniary considerations could 
induce you to accept a few months before. I do 
not recollect a single instance of a murmur having 
escaped her, or the least expression of regret at what 
she had lost; on the contrary she always appeared 
contented; and particularly after our fixing at 
C , it seemed as if the place and mode of 

life were such as she preferred, and in which she 
was most happy. 

" I pass over in silence a time in which we had 
no home of our own, and when, from the deranged 
state of our affairs, we were indebted for one to the 
kindness and generosity of a friend;* nor do I speak 
of the time spent in Ireland, when following the 
regiment with my husband, because the want of a 

* Mrs. M— , now Mrs. G. S— -. 
N 



settled abode interrupted those studies in which my 
daughter, most delighted. Books are not light of 
carriage, and the blow which deprived us of Pierce- 
field, deprived us of a library also. But though this 
period of her life afforded little opportunity for Im- 
provement in science, the qualities of her heart never 
appeared in a more amiable light. Through all the 
inconveniences which attended our situation while 
living in barracks, the firmness and cheerful resig- 
nation of her mind, at the age of nineteen, made me 
blush for the tear which too frequently trembled in 
my eye, at the recollection of all the comforts we 
had lost. 

" In October 1800, we left Ireland, and deter- 
mined on seeking out some retired situation in 
England; in the hope that by strict ceconomy, and 
with the blessing of cheerful, contented minds, we 
might yet find something like comfort; which the 
frequent change of quarters with four children, and 
the then insecure state of Ireland, made it impos- 
sible to feel, notwithstanding the kind and generous* 
attention we invariably received from the hospitable 

inhabitants of that country. We passed the 

winter in a cottage on the banks of the Lake of 
TJJswater, and continued there till the May follow. 



[ 179 ] 

ing, when we removed to our present residence at 

C > This country had many charms for 

Elizabeth. She drew correctly from nature, and 
her enthusiastic admiration of the sublime and 
beautiful ofien carried her beyond the bounds of 
prudent precaution with regard to her health. Fre- 
quently in the summer she was out during twelve or 
fourteen hours, and in that time walked many miles. 
When she returned at night she was always more 
cheerful than usual ; never said she was fatigued, 
and seldom appeared so. It is astonishing how she 
found time for all she acquired, and all she accom- 
plished. Nothing was neglected; there was a scru- 
pulous attention to all the minutiae of her sex ; for 
her well-regulated mind, far from despising them, 
considered them as a part of that system of perfection 
at which she aimed \ an aim which was not the re- 
sult of vanity, nor to attract: the applause of the 
world; no human being ever sought it less, or was 
more entirely free from conceit of every kind. The 
approbation of God and of her own conscience 
were the only rewards she ever sought ; but her own 
words declare this truth much more forcibly than I 
can, in a paper which is now in Mrs. H. B — fc 
possession. 

N 2 



[ iso 3 

€i Her translation of the Book of Job was finished 
in 1803. During the two last years of her life, she 
was engaged in translating from the German some 
letters and papers, written by Mr. and Mrs. Klop- 
stock. Amongst her papers I found a letter from 
Mrs. M. B— on this subject, dated March 1803, 
in which she says, c my endeavours to obtain a 
clear account of the new edition of Klopstock's 
works have been unsuccessful, but I still hope that 
I shall very soon know whether it contains any 
thing new, or worth sending to you. In the mean 
time, if you are not tired, let me have every thing 
written by Mrs. Klopstock. We can determine on 
nothing till we have got all our treasures/ The 
rest of this letter does not particularly relate to my 
daughter, but I cannot forbear copying it, for a 
reason that will be obvious to you. ' Miss H — 
and I wished for a little country air, and perfect 
quiet. We are in a lovely spot ; not possessing the 
sublime beauties of your country, but the prettiest, 
cheerful scene imaginable; ornamented with little 
neat cottages, fields covered with lambs, fine trees,, 
and the whole beautifully varied with hill and dale. 
To me it has still greater charms, as it is my native 
eountry, the scene of my early happiness r 



[ 181 3 

" Where erst my careless childhood stray'd, 
" A stranger yet to pain!" 

My first house is always before my eyes, and my 
last is so near that I can listen to the bell which 
tolled for those who were most dear to me on earth, 
and visit the humble tomb where I hope to rest with 
them. Do you remember how often, during the last 
few weeks of her life, and after her faculties were 
much weakened by illness, my dearest mother used 
to say to herself, ( Verily there is a reward for the 
righteous P We have placed these words on the 
stone which covers a vault, in which a little space 
remains for me. God grant that I may have 
reason to repeat them in my last moments with 
the faith and hope that animated her sweet coun- 
tenance! Near forty years have elapsed since my 

parents quitted their residence in this country, but 
it is very pleasing to witness the gratitude with 
which they are still remembered. I talk to the poor 
grey-headed peasants, and delight to hear them say, 
* The Squire and Madam were very good,* What 
ever those may think who have only titles or wealth 
to boast of, the good are remembered longer than 
the great; and the name which I inherit from my 
father, still conciliates more good will in this little 



[ 182 J 

spot than any in the Peerage. Indeed it is so easy 
to be beloved, it costs so little money or trouble, 
and it pays such rich interest, that I wonder more 
attention is not bestowed on it.'* 

<e For the translations from Klopstock, and from 
the Hebrew Bible, as well as for many other writings 
both in verse and prose, I refer you to Mrs. H. B — , 

« I am, dear Sir, &c. &c." 



* Some apology may perhaps be required from the Editor, 
for not omitting the little tribute of filial affection, which 
Mrs. S — had inserted in a letter written to a friend of both 
families. To those who have equal reason to be proud of 
their parents, the writer of this note ventures to appeal on 
this occasion; and by them she hopes to be forgiven. In 
her answer to this letter, Miss S — says, " Your inscription 
on the stone pleases me exceedingly. The words are in 
every sense appropriate. No one could witness the latter 
days of that holy life, without feeling a perfect conviction 
of their truth." 



[ 183 ] 

LETTER III. 
Mrs. S to the Rev. Dr. R . 

"Dear Shy 

" In compliance with youi request, I will now 
endeavour to trace the progress of the fatal disease 
which deprived me of my beloved child, to the last 
closing scene. In the summer of the year 1805, 
Elizabeth was seized with a cold, which terminated 
in her death 5 and I wish the cause was more gene- 
rally known, as a caution to those whose studious 
turn of mind may lead them into the same error. 
I will give the account as she herself related it, a 
very short time before she died, to a faithful and 
affectionate servant, who first came into the family 
when my daughter was only six weeks old. 

' One very hot evening in July, I took a book, 
and walked about two miles from home, where I 
seated myself on a stone beside the lake. Being 
much engaged by a poem I was reading, I did not 
perceive that the sun was gone down, and was suc- 
ceeded by a very heavy dew j till in a moment I felt 



[ 181 ] 

struck. on the chest as if with a sharp knife. I re- 
turned home, but said nothing of the pain. The 
next day being also very hot, and every one busy in 
the hay-field, I thought I would take a rake, and 
work very hard, to produce perspiration, in the hope 
that it might remove the pain, but it did not/ 

" From that time a bad cough, with occasional 
loss of voice, gave me great apprehension of what 
might be the consequence if the cause were not re- 
moved; but no intreaties could prevail on her to take 
the proper remedies, or to refrain from her usual 
walks. This she persisted in, being sometimes better, 
and then a little worse, till the beginning of October. 
*I had long been engaged to spend the winter with a 
most dear and interesting friend at Bath, and my 
three daughters had accepted a kind invitation to 
spend that time at Sunbury. Elizabeth had, previ- 
ous to her illness, offered to accompany me to Bath, 
in order first to make a visit to Mr. and Mrs. C — , in 
the hope that she might possibly beguile some of the 
painful hours, which that worthy man constantly, 
though so patiently, endures; at least she thought 
that she might afford some little comfort to Mrs. 
C — . To these friends we were bound, by every 
tie of gratitude and affecYion, to offer every conso- 



[ 185 ] 

lation in our power. Their hearts were ever open 
to our griefs j their house always afforded shelter 
and protection from the various evils which assailed 
us. To mv third son they have proved themselves, 
if possible, more than parents. 

<e A few days before we were to set out from 

C . my daughter became so rapidly worse, that 

I doubted the possibility of her bearing the journey; 
at the same time I was most anxious to remove her 
to a~milder climate, and within reach of medical 
assistance. When we reached Kendal, I insisted 
on taking the advice of a physician, as to the pro- 
priety of continuing our journey, and I received his 
directions for proceeding as fast as she could bear 
without inconvenience ; her pulse, he said, indicated 
considerable inflammation, and a wanner climate 
would be very desirable. She bore travelling much 
better than I could have expected, making no com- 
plaint, but of pain in her legs, till we reached Glou- 
cester, when I was astonished to find that she had lost 
all use of them. The next morning her voice too was 
gone; and in this sad state, unable to speak or to 
stand, she was carried to the house of our beloved 
friend in P street. From this deplorable con- 
dition she was soon relieved bv the skill and atten- 



[ 186 ] 

tion of Dr. G , and we had sanguine expec- 
tations of her being restored to health. As soon as 
she had recovered the power of walking, she was 

removed to S Place; but instead of a comfort, 

she became an additional cause of anxiety to Mr, 
and Mrs. C — . Friends less tenderly attentive, or 
less uniformly attached, would have shrunk from 
the charge of receiving her, instead of pressing the 
performance of her promise. I saw her daily, and 
had the joy of seeing her gradually amend. After 

continuing six weeks in S Place, she was anxious 

to see her beloved sister before her marriage; and 
with Dr. G — 's approbation she accompanied me 
to Sunbury. Her delicate state of health was well 
known to Sir J. L — , but he most kindly urged her 
removal to his house, thinking that the society of 
her sisters, and the change of air, might be bene- 
ficial. In this conjecl.ure he was right, and I left 
her, at the end of ten days, much better; although 
the marriage of her sister had greatly agitated her 
spirits, as occasioning a separation from the favourite 
of her heart. 

" I returned to the friend whom I had left ill at 
Bath, and continued to receive the most flattering 
accounts of Elizabeth's bealth ? not only from herself, 



[ 187 J 

but from many who observed the delightful change. 
In one of my letters to her, I asked if she thought she 
should be better in any other place, or if she could 
point out any situation in which she would feel herself 
more comfortable. In her answer she said, ' I know 
no place in which I can be better, or any that I should 
like half so well. The kindness and attention of Sir 
J. and Lady L — cannot be exceeded. I am left at 
perfect liberty to do as I like, and 3 T ou know how 
pleasant it is to me to listen to the conversation of 
two or three very sensible men, without being obliged 

to take any part in it.' On the 6th of March my 

beloved friend Lady expired. A few days 

before that event I had a letter from my daughter, 
to tell me that as she had some symptoms of re- 
turning inflammation, she had been bled, but more 
as a preventive, than from any necessity. On the 
23d I arrived at Sunbury, just as she was going out 
in a carriage with Lady L — . I had indulged the 
pleasing expectation of seeing her materially better, 
and was therefore thunderstruck at the first sight of 
her, for I instantly thought I discovered confirmed 
decline in her countenance. On my expressing to 
my friends my surprise, they told me she had been 
greatly better, that the change I perceived had only 



C 188 ] 

taken place a few days before, and might be ascribed 
to the long continuance of a cold east wind. I 
wrote the next day to Dr. B — , and fixed a time for 
meeting him in London. After seeing her, the 
Doctor candidly told me it was a very had case; that 
he would try a medicine which sometimes had 
proved very beneficial, but owned that he had little 
expectation of its succeeding with her, and desired 
to see her again in ten days, which he accordingly 
did. He then said he would not trouble her with 
more medicine; and on my entreating him to tell 
me exactly what plan he would wish to be pursued, 
without at all considering wzy situation ; he re- 
plied, " In the month of May she may go where 
she likes, but early in September you had better go 
to Flushing in Cornwall; unless she should be very 
much better than I own I expect:, and in that case 
I would recommend your going to the Madeiras 5 
but to send you there, with my present opinion of 
the case, would only be aggravating your sorrow, by 
removing you from your country and your friends." 
To Clifton, Elizabeth always expressed a particular 
dislike, saying that she was sure the want of shade 
would kill her; and as she shewed a decided pre-r. 
terence to C~ , it was determined that we should 






t 189 ] 

go thither. Sir J. L — would not suffer us to 
depart till the weather became perfectly mild ; in- 
deed I must ever gratefully remember his uncom- 
monly friendly attention. Though a. constant in- 
valid and sufferer himself, scarcely a day past, 
without his suggesting something likely to contri- 
bute to my daughter's ease and comfort; nor was 
Lady L— less constant in her kind attentions. 

<c On the 6th of May we quitted the hospitable 
mansion of our friends at Sunbury, where my daugh- 
ters had passed five months. Matlock water had been 
recommended by some people, and with Dr. B — 's 
approbation we determined to make some stay there* 
At that place Elizabeth saw her father, after an 
absence of many months. The pleasure of meeting 
him, the novelty of the scene, and the remarkable 
fineness of the weather, seemed to give her in- 
creased strength and spirits; and the day after our 
arrival she walked so far, that I confessed myself 
tired, but this apparent amendment was soon over, 
and she relapsed into her former languid state, 
unable to walk to any distance, and only riding a 
little way, while some one walked beside her. We 
remained at Matlock near three weeks, but not per- 
ceiving that she gained any benefit, we set off for 



[ w ] 

C . Travelling always seemed to agree with 

her, and on her arrival at her favourite spot, I again 
perceived an alteration for the better, but it was 
only for a few days. I had a tent pitched as near 
the house as I could, in which she sat the chief part 
of the day. When the weather permitted, she went 
out in an open carriage, and however languid she 
appeared, still the grandeur of the scenery never 
failed to call forth her admiration. One day, when 
we were sitting in the tent, and talking of the sur- 
rounding beauties, she asked me if that would not 
be a good situation for our new cottage.* I agreed 
that ft would, but added, u I can determine on 
nothing, till T see how the next winter in Cornwal! 
agrees with you. Should your health be better there, 
we shall certainly sell this place, and settle in the 
south ** She answered with more than usual quick- 
ness, c If I cannot live here, I am sure I can no 
where else/ This was the only thing she ever said 
to yne which implied an expectation of approaching 
death. I understand that she wrote to some of her 
friends on the subject, and I find a letter from 
Mrs. H. B — , which evidently alludes to something 

* A cottage is now built on the beautiful spot, pointed 
out by Miss S — . 



C »91 ] 

Elizabeth had written to her respecting her illness, 
for in it she says, ' You have long had a worse 
opinion of your state of health than I hope it de- 
serves; but much attention is and will be necessary, 
and I depend on your promise of taking care of your- 
self. I felt little doubt that you were ready to leave 
a world, in which as yet you have not had much 
enjoyment, for one that is much better suited to such 
a mind as yours; but we cannot spare you yet. 
You will, I hope, find much to interest you in life; 
and though I may not live to see it, you may, some 
time or other, be surrounde4^ith blessings, which 

may make amends for all past sorrows.'* In 

another letter from the same friend, dated July 
16, 1806, she says, ' When we ask to be relieved 
from our sufferings, we ask what our Heavenly 
Father often in mercy denies ; but when we ask to 
be supported under them, we ask what we shall 
certainly obtain. May you experience this, dear 
child of my heart, under every trial; and may those 

who love you as I do, experience it too/ No 

other part of this letter was preserved, which I the 

* This written at a very early period of Miss S — 's 
illness ; and when all her friends, except her mother, had 
hopes of her recovery. 



[ 192 ] 

more regret, as I have since learnt that it was in 
answer to one which Elizabeth had written to 
prepare her friend for the event which soon after- 
wards took place. Her total silence to me, I 
fear, may be ascribed to her perceiving, in spite 
of all my endeavours to conceal it, that I had long 
been too apprehensive of her real state. No 
one seemed to think her so ill as I did. Indeed, 
the change was so gradual, that it was only by 
a comparison with the preceding week, that we 
were sensible of her having lost strength in the last. 
It was not till the Monday before her death that any 
material alteration appeared, and I know you are 
already informed, by a letter which I wrote to our 
mutual friend, of what passed during the last three 
days of her painful existence. 

€i I have now, my dear sir, complied with your 
request, with regard to my beloved daughter. Per- 
haps my desire of fulfilling your wish, may have led 
me into a tedious detail of little matters; and it is 
more than probable that the havoc which time and 
sorrow have made in my mind, may have occa- 
sioned my omitting some things of more import- 
ance. I do not attempt to draw any character of 
this inestimable being, because it was well known 



[ 195 ] 

and understood by you \ and the conduct of her 
whole life speaks much more in her praise, than 
could be expressed even by the partial pen of a 
mother. 

"lam, &c. &c." 



LETTER IV. 

From Mrs. S— to mrs. H. B~. 

« August, 1806. 
" Thank God, I can now with some com- 
posure sit down to thank my best and dearest 
friend for all her kind letters ; but after such a 
loss, we must have time to weep, and time to dry 
our tears, before we can either receive or bestow 
comfort. My neighbours have been kindly at- 
tentive to me, offering to come here, and begging 
me to go to them; but I have answered, that home 
and perfect quiet are all I can enjoy at present. 
God bless dear Mrs. D — , for her kind enquiry of 
who would comfort me. She knows how to admi- 
nister comfort, even when she most needs it herself, 
o 



[ 194 ] 

This I have experienced from her, arid ever grate- 
fully shall I feel it. But God has comforted me, 
and the gratifying conviction that my angel is for 
ever happy, with the consciousness of having to the 
best of my abilities fulfilled my duty towards her, 
are consolations which I would not exchange fof 
this world's weath. 

" I shall have a melancholy pleasure in comply- 
ing with your request, and will begin where my last 

letter ended. T slept in a room only separated 

from my beloved child by a wooden partition, and 
so close to her bed that she could hear her breathe. 

On Wednesday morning T told me she was 

much the same, though the sweet sufferer herself 
said she was better. I went to her, as usual, the 
moment I was out of bed, and was struck with the 
change in her countenance. On feeling her pulse, I 
was persuaded she could not continue long. She told 
me she was better, and would get up. She did so, 
and was cheerful when she spoke, though it evi- 
dently increased her pain, and difficulty of breathing. 
When she coughed or moved, she seemed to be in 
agony. She took nourishment as usual, and on my 
asking what book I should read to her, she men- 
tioned Thomson's Seasons, I read Winter. She 



[ 195 ] 

made many observations, and entered entirely into 
the subject. About three o'clock Mrs. — called* 
having come with a party to see the Lake. Eliza- 
beth said she should like to see her. Before she 
went up stairs, I requested she would feel the pulse* 
which I was persuaded indicated the termination of 
her sufferings before many hours. She entered 

into conversation cheerfully. Mrs. told me 

that she thought I was mistaken; that her pulse 
were not those of a dying person, and she was of 
opinion that she might last some time. So much 
were all deceived, who did not watch every turn of 
her countenance as I did ! The apothecary came 
afterwards. He thought her in great danger, but 
could not say whether immediate, or not. At nine 
she went to bed. I resolved to quit her no more, 

and went to prepare for the night. T came lo 

say that Elizabeth entreated I would not think of 
staving in her room; and added, ( she cannot bear 
you should do it, for she says you are yourselfunwell, 
and rest is necessary for you/ Think of her sweet 
attention! I replied, "on that one subject lam 
resolved; no power on earth shall keep me from her$ 
so go to bed yourself." Accordingly I returned to 
her room, and at ten gave her v the usual dose of 
O 2 



[ 196 ] 

laudanum. After a little time she fell into a dose, 
and I thought slept till past one. She then took 
some mint-tea. Her breath was very bad, and 
she was uneasy and restless, but never complained ; 
and on my wiping the cold sweat off her face, and 
bathing it with camphorated vinegar, which I did 
verv often in the course of the night, she thanked 
me, smiled, and said, e that is the greatest comfort 
I have.' She slept again for a short time, and at 
half past four asked for some chicken-broth, which 
she took perfectly well. On being told the hour, 
she said, ( how long this night is!' She continued 
very uneasy, and in half an hour after, on my enqui- 
ring if I could move the pillow, or do any thing to 
relieve her, she replied, c there is nothing for it but 
quiet;' I said no more, but thinking that she was 

dying, I sat on the bed watching her. At six she 

said, c I must get up, and have some mint-tea ;' I 
then called for T — , and felt my angels' pulse; they 
were fluttering, and I knew I should soon lose her. 
She took the tea well ; T — began to put on her 
clothes, and was proceeding to dress her, when she 
•laid her head on the faithful creature's shoulder, be- 
came convulsed in the face, spoke not, looked not, 
and in ten minutes expired. 



[ 197 J 

<e It did not appear that she thought her end was so 
very near; for only two days before, she told T — 
the chaise was finished, and she should speak to me 
to have it home, for it would be better to go an 
airing in it, before we set out on thejourney. I did 
not tell her my opinion of her state, because I might 
be mistaken, and I believed that her whole life had 
been one state of preparation for the awful change. 
Every paper I have found confirms this gratifying 
idea. On reflection, I have every thing to reconcile 
me to her loss, but my own selfish feelings; and 
having witnessed the sufferings of humanity in a 
beloved child, 

" Though raised above 
" The reach of human pain, above the flight 
" Of human joys; — yet with a mingled ray 
" Of sadly pleas'd remembrance, must I feel 
" A mother's love, a mother's tender woe!" 

<e Be easy, my dearest friend, on the subject of 
my health; it is as good as usual, and I wonder 
myself at the state of my mind. I believe the 
overlooking my Elizabeth's papers has administered 
more comfort to me than I could have received from 
any other source; for every line has strengthened my 



[198 ] 

conviction that the dear writer of them must be 
happy. I regret her having destroyed many papers 
lately. Those remaining are chiefly religious and 
moral reflections, translations from the Bible, &c. I 
wish to send them to you, with some little trifle of 
her property for each of her dearest friends. You 
will value them as having been hers, and excuse the 
dotage of a parent who wishes her friends to re- 
member the treasure she once possessed. Tell me 
that you and all whom I tenderly love are better. 
I need not name them. I have a thousand things to 
say to you, but it cannot be now. God for ever bless 
you, my dearest friend ! Thank all those who so 
kindly feel for me." 

LETTER V. 

<e Septeynber 1 . 
" Mr. A — very kindly desires me to set off di- 
rectly for Edinburgh, thinking it necessary I should 
immediately quit a place in which I have suffered so 
much; and I have a very kind letter from K — , 
which I have answered by saying that it is my in- 
tention to be with them on the 26th. I have also a 
most friendly invitation from Mrs. R — ; two or 
three of my neighbours have kindly made the same 



[ 199 3 

offer; but at present I like no place but this. I love 
to look at the seat on which my angel sat, at the bed 
on which she lay; in short nothing consoles me but 
what reminds me of her. It is a sorrow which is 
soothing to my mind, and raises it above the petty 
griefs to which I have too often given way. Nature 
never bestowed on me her talents; habit never gave 
me the same application ; but my beloved child has 
left me an example whichl should glory in following, 
and I pray God that I may enabled to do so ! 

M I had promised Mr. and Mrs. G — , that the first 
visit I made should be to them, provided they would 
assure me that I should see no one else. Whilst I 
was there, Mrs. G. was called out to a lady who was 
going on directly, and who had with her Mr. and Mrs. 
G — C — ; I begged to see her ; but this unexpected 
meeting overset all my firmness, and she observed 
that she had never seen me so cut down before. I 
answered that I had never before lost so much. 
*No/ said she, * nor any other human being/ You 
may imagine how grateful these words were to my 
heart. The dear woman stayed only a few minutes, 
and is gone to Edinburgh, where she will see our 
beloved K — . I have blotted my paper, but you 
will excuse it." 



[ 200 ] 

LETTER VI. 

" September 8. 
{C On the 5th T dispatched a little box for you. It 
contains all the papers, a small parcel, &c. You 
will observe in one of the memorandum-books a 
few words respecting the expenditure of the legacy- 
left her by your excellent mother, which I am sure 
will please you.* I think I did know your sainted 
parent; and doing so, I felt a reverence and affection 
for her little short of yours. When I consider her 
unvaried affection for me, I fear I am tempted to 
think better of myself than I ought. 

(i B — 's sudden removal from this country has 
sensibly affected me, because I feel persuaded that I 
must not expect to see him more.f If it please God 
to preserve his life, it will probably be years before 
he returns; and (like you) I do not look far in this 
world, nor dare I look forward to any pleasing event. 
In five short months I witnessed two sad scenes of 
death, and the impression each made on my mind 
can never be effaced. 

* < Account of a legacy left me by that excellent and 
ever-honoured Mrs. B — . May I fpend every sixpence as she 
would advise me to do, if she were present!' 

f The third son of Mrs. S — , who was then ordered 
to join the expedition under General Crawfurd. 



[ 201 ] 

" I can now again attend my own parish church, 
and I cannot tell you how gratifying it is to me; — I 
seem to meet my beloved Elizabeth every Sunday. 
This idea occasions sensations that T would not ex- 
change for any earthly treasure. They are not such 
as depress my spirits; quite otherwise. They excite 
my hope, increase my piety, and strengthen me to 
meet the trials of the ensuing week. Indeed I feel 
that she is dearer tome every day." 

LETTER VII. 
« From Mrs. G To Mrs.H. B— . 

" September 9, 1806. 
* c Feeling as I know you do for your beloved 

friend at C , I think it will be a comfort to hear 

from one who has had much intimate conversation 
with her since the sad loss she has sustained. It is 
true that to you she has opened her whole heart, and 
you know all that passes there better than I can tell 
you; but it will interest you to hear of her looks 
and deportment from a friend who has seen her 
frequently, and who feels for her most sincerely. 

Yesterday evening we returned from C , after 

passing two days there. Her firmness, her collecl:- 



[ 202 ] 

ed mind, exceeds any thing T have seen, because 
I trace through it feelings the most acute. 

DO 

" The instant we heard of what had happened, 
Mr. G — , impressed by the idea of her receiving 
the blow in a state of solitude, was inclined to go 
directly, but I convinced him that it was better to 
write first. I soon had a few lines which afforded 
all the satisfaction we could expect to receive; quiet, 
she said, was at first absolutely necessary, but it 
would be a comfort to see us when she could sup- 
port the meeting. A worthy Clergyman afforded 
all necessary assistance, and to him she gave di- 
rections as to all that was to be done. The last 
solemn ceremony took place early in the morning, 
and was conducted with perfect simplicity. It was 
over before we heard of it, otherwise Mr. G — and 
I should have been tempted, through respect for the 
living ixnd the dead, to have attended. On Mr. G — 's 
account, however, I believe it was better omitted, 
though he says it would have been a satisfaction ; 
but it might have been too much for his nerves, 
for they were so much affected by his first visit to 

C , that it was several days before he recovered. 

Indeed it was an affecting visit. On that day three 
weeks we had seen your dear girl sitting under the 



[ 203 ] 

same tent in a field overlooking the Lake, accom- 
panied by her Father, Mother, and Sister; now we 
found her place empty, her Mother and Sister alone. 
It was not very long before Mrs. S — had the reso- 
lution to speak of her. She sought and found the 
highest consolation in dwelling on her virtues, and 
on the proofs she had found in the writings she left 
behind, that she was well prepared to quit this 
world. Mrs. S — afterwards read to us the most 
kindly sympathising letter from T — W — that ever 
was written on such an occasion, with some verses 
to the memory of his favourite, so characteristic, 
and coming so truly from the heart, that neither 
Mr. G — nor I could restrain our tears. Mr. G — 
rejoices in having fitted up that shew-box for you, 
and means to do an appropriate moon-light for it." 

LETTER VIII. 
P From Mrs. G— To Mrs. H. B— . 

" Mr. G — has been trying to do his promised 
moon-light in a way that may do some justice to 
his regard for you, and to the memory of the inte- 
resting person to whom it alludes, but he bids me 
tell you that, when most anxious to do his best, he 
.seldom can please him self. He trusts however that 



[ 204 ] 

you will be in some degree gratified by this token 
of his regard to you, and to the memory of one so 
justly dear to you, and so affectionately valued by 
himself. He applied to me for some lines to write 
on the space he has left at the bottom of the frame, 
and was pleased with my suggestion of selecting a 
couplet from the verses written by T — W — . 
They came pure from the heart of one who truly 
appreciated her character, and tenderly lamented 
her loss." &c* 

I will here add the letter and poem mentioned by 
Mrs. G — « The author, T — W — , a Quaker, is 
well known, and universally respe&ed in the coun- 
try where he resides; and Mrs. S — says of him, 

* With this letter I received a beautiful landscape, with 
an urn sacred to the memory of my beloved friend, which is 
placed with her transparencies. This picture was one of 
the last efforts of Mr. G — 's elegant pencil. That inge" 
nious, amiable, and most excellent man, died on the 10th 
of June, 1807. The lines to which Mrs. G — alludes are 
now indeed peculiarly appropriate, and they are placed on 
the picture: 

" Long shall my care these sweet memorials save; 
" The hand that traced them rests within the grave!" 



[ 205 ] 

f < He is one of the very few people who really knew 
my daughter, and he felt for her character that es- 
teem which the wise and good ever entertain for 
each other.* * Miss S — had much pleasure in 
his society and correspondence, and he sometimes 
attended her and her sisters in their long walks 
amongst the mountains. 

LETTER XI. 
"To Mrs. S— . 

" My dear Friend, 
" Will it be an intrusion on the sacredness of 
thy sorrow, thus to address thee? I have heard of 
thy loss, and can truly say I sympathize therein. 
I have awoke in tears in the night, to meditate on 
the affecting event; and the thoughts of my friend, 
and precious daughter, are frequently my compani- 
ons by day. Many are now my recollections of dear 
Elizabeth] her sweet and serious countenance is 
often so vivid in my remembrance, that I sometimes 
can hardly think I shall see her no more. How un- 
searchable are the ways of the Almighty ! He 
9 frequently selects the wisest and the best for him- 



[ 206 ] 

Self, whilst " the world lying in wickedness" seems 
to want their example and reproof, and the virtuous 
and drooping Christian their encouragement and 
support. Yet we are not to question his ways ; for 
surely they are in wisdom, though that wisdom we 
cannot comprehend. Never let us forget, my friend, 
that this is a state of trial. Affliction and trial will 
terminate in the grave, and if we are faithful to the 
last, we shall rise in happiness. I have had no parti- 
culars of the trying event; when thou hast strength 
to write, it would be desirable to know how thou 
and J — are, and whether thy husband, or any 

branch of the family, were at C during the 

solemn scene? Thy lot has often been to bear the 
heaviest part of the burthen. I shall devote the 
rest of my paper to a little memorial of its kind to 
thy valued daughter. 

ce Farewell! With true esteem and affection, I 
remain thy sincere and sympathising friend, 

" T. W." 

LINES ENCLOSED. 

" HOW dark this river, murmuring on its way; 
This wood how solemn, at the close of day ! 
What clouds come on, what shades of evening fall, 
Till one vast veil of sadnes3 covers all !— . 



[ 207 ] 

jPnen why alone thus lingering do I roam, 
Heedless of clouds, of darkness, and of home ?— 
Well may I linger in this twilight gloom 
Alone, and sad — Eliza's in her tomb! 
She who so late, by kindred taste ally'd, 
Paced this lone path, conversing at my side; 
The wildering path 'twas her delight to prove, 
Through the green valley, or the cooling grove. 

4i Can I forget, on many a summer's day, 
How through the woods and lanes we wont to stray; 
How cross the moors* and up the hills to wind, 
And leave the fields and sinking vales behind: 
How arduous o'er the mountain steeps to go, 
And look by turns on all the plains below; 
How scal'd th' aerial cliffs th' adven'trous maid, 
Whilst, far beneath, her foil'd companion staid? 

«« Yet whilst to her sublimest scenes arise, 
Of mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies, 
The intellectual world still claim'd her care- 
There she would range, amid the wise and fair, 
Untutor'd range ; — her penetrating mind 
Left the dull track of school-research behind; 
Rush'd on, and seiz'd the funds of Eastern lore, 
Arabia, Persia, adding to her store. 

" Yet unobtrusive, serious, and meek, 
The first to listen, and the last to speak; 
Though rich in intellect, her powers of thought 
In youth's prime season no distinction sought; 



[ 208 ] 

But ever prompt at duty's sacred call, 
She oft in silence left the social hall, 
To trace the cots and villages around, 
No cot too mean, where misery might be found: 
How have I seen her at the humblest shed, 
Bearing refreshment to the sick man's bed; 
His drooping spirits cheer'd — she from his door 
Return 'd, amid the blessings of the poor ! 

" Oh, lost Eliza ! dear, ingenuous maid, 
While low in earth thy cold remains are laid, 
Thy genuine friendship, thy attentions kind, 
Rise like a vision on my pensive mind; 
Thy love of truth, thy readiness to please, 
Thy sweet, refin'd simplicity and ease, 
Enhanc'd the favours of ingenious art, 
And made thy gifts pass onward to the heart: 
These beauteous tints,* these peaceful scenes I view, 
Thy taste design'd, and ready friendship drew ; 
Long shall my care the sweet memorials save — , 
The hand that trac'd them rests within the grave! 

" Lamented maiden ! pensive and alone, 
While sorrowing friendship pours her tender moan, 
Sad memory sees thee, at our parting hour, 
Pale, weak, yet lovely as a drooping flower, 
Which sheds its leaves on autumn's sickly bed ;-— 
Thou from thy pillow rais'd thy peaceful head; 

* " Her drawings in a rustic building beside the river Emont.* . 



I 



1 



[ 209 ] 

To me thou held'st thy feeble hand — it bore 
Naambannaf dying on his native shore; 
Like his, Religion's holy truths, address'd 
To thy young mind, were treasur'd in thy breast ; 
Like his, we saw thy early blossoms wave ; 
Now see the Virtues weeping o'er thy grave !" 

The last manuscript with which I was favoured by 
Dr. Mumssen arrived too late ; and when I wrote to 
thank him for it, T mentioned the irreparable loss 
I had sustained, and spoke of my lamented friend 
in the following words ; which drew from him an 
answer so gratifying to my feelings, that I hope I 
may be pardoned for inserting it. My letter con- 
tains a very imperfect sketch of Miss S — 's charac- 
ter, but it is drawn with truth. 

LETTER X. 

Extract from a Letter from Mrs. H. 2?— 
to Dr. Mumssen. 

"September 1806. 
" The lovely young creature on whose account 
I first applied to you, had been for above a year 

f An affecting account of the pious African, Henry Granville 
Naambanna, which she gave the author, as he took his last leave of 
her a short time before her death. 
P 



[ 210 1 

gradually declining, and on the 7th of August she 
resigned her pure spirit to God who gave it. Her 
character was so extraordinary, and she was so very 
dear to me, that I hope you will forgive my dwelling 
a little longer on my irreparable loss. Her person 
and manners were extremely pleasing, with a pen- 
sive softness of countenance that indicated deep 
reflection ; but her extreme timidity concealed the 
most extraordinary talents that ever fell under my 
observation. With scarcely any assistance, she 
taught herself the French, Italian, Spanish, Ger- 
man, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages. She 
had no inconsiderable knowledge of Arabic and 
Persic. She was well acquainted with Geometry? 
Algebra, and other branches of the Mathematics. 
She was a very fine musician. She drew land- 
scapes from nature extremely well, and was a mis- 
tress of perspective. She shewed an early taste for 
poetry, of which some specimens remain ; but I 
believe she destroyed most of the effusions of her 
youthful muse, when an acquaintance with your 
great poet, and still more when the sublime com- 
positions of the Hebrew bards, gave a different turn 
to her thoughts. With ail these acquirements she 
was perfectly feminine in her disposition ; elegant, 



[ 211 ] 

modest, gentle, and affectionate; nothing was ne- 
glected, which a woman ought to know; no duty- 
was omitted, which her situation in life required her 
to perform. But the part of her character on which 
I dwell with the greatest satisfaction, is that exalted 
piety, which seemed always to raise her above this 
world, and taught her, at sixteen years of age, to 
resign its riches and its pleasures almost without 
regret, and to support with dignity a very unexpected 

change of situation. For some years before her 

death the Holy Scripture was her principal study, 
and she translated from the Hebrew the whole book 
of Job, 8cc. &c. How far she succeeded in this 
attempt I am not qualified tojudge ; but the benefit 
which she herself derived from these studies must 
be evident to those who witnessed the patience and 
resignation with which she supported a long and 
painful illness, the sweet attention which she always 
shewed to the feelings of her parents and friends, 
and the heavenly composure with which she looked 
forward to the awful change which has now removed 
her to a world, ( where (as one of her friends 
observes) her gentle, pure, and enlightened spirit 
will find itself more at home than in this land of 

shadows/ &c. Sec. 

p 2 



[ *** ] 

LETTER XT. 

Dr. MumsseNj in reply. 

" Altona, Oct. 3, 1806. 
" Let me very heartily sympathise with yon, 
dear Madam, in your sorrow. The loss you have / 
suffered is great, is irrecoverable in this world. The ■ 
account you gave me of the extraordinary character 
of your late angelic friend, has filled my breast with 
admiration and awe. I have read your letter with 
tears. So many accomplishments, natural and 
moral ; so much of science, erudition, and eminence 
of rare talents, combined with grace, with gentle- 
ness, and all the virtues that adorn a female mind I 
It is wonderful, and cannot be enough admired. 
Great, indeed, must have been your happiness in 

the possession of this treasure. Alas! the gentle 

spirit that moved her tender limbs is soon divested 
of its mortal garment, and gone to join its kindred 
angels ! 

* Vattene in pace, Alma beata e bella!' 
But I think her happy in this our period; for what 
can be more fortunate on earth than to fall into the 
hands of the virtuous, and free from contact of a 
corrupted race, to make her passage over our un- 



[ 213 ] 

lucky planet pure and immaculate, and with the 
robe of innocence appear before her Creator? To 
taste all the sweets of science and art, and having 
satisfied all honest desires, remove from the feast of 
life with gratitude. ' "Tis a consummation de- 
voutly to be wished !' 

" Your being deprived of such a hand, I fear, 
will put a stop to your honourable project; yet I will 
hope that somebody will be found to assist you in 
reducing and sifting the materials you have collected. 

<c Pray tell me the name of your late young friend, 
that I may honour her memory. Such radiant 
flames seldom descend to inhabit terrestrial forms. 
" With true esteem and affection, I am, &c. 



LETTER XII. 

From the Rev. Dr. R — to Mrs. S — . 

"Ihave to thank you, my dear Mrs. S — , for 
your very interesting manuscript. To those who 
once shared the friendship of your excellent daugh- 
ter, the most trifling incidents of her life are now 
become valuable records j and scenes of childhood, 



[ 214 ] 

when connected with the expansive powers of 
genius, cease to be insignificant; as the smallest rill 
assumes an importance from being contemplated as 
the source of a great and majestic river. Let me 
however confess, that without a more powerful 
motive for my request, than the one you so justly 
assign to me, I should have spared you the sad 
remembrance of the days of infantine occupations; 
and judging of the culture by the produce, have 
given due credit to your system of education, nor 
felt any inclination to pry further into the secrets of 
a mother's care. 

tc But the plant you had the happiness to rear in 
the moral garden of life, (though, alas! of short 
duration,) exhibited such a luxuriant fertility, and a 
vigour of shoot so far exceeding the ordinary growth 
of intellect, that it seems a duty you owe to society 
to mark the several points and stages of its advance- 
ment to such early maturity. 

" I see you start at the proposal I am about to 
make; but the papers now before me not only 
serve to increase my admiration of your beloved 
child, but convince me, the more I read them, that 
she that is gone ought to live in universal remem- 
brance ; that over such a .grave grief should not be 



C 215 ] 

dumb ; and that the world, deprived by her death of" 

one of its brightest ornaments, has a claim to every 

memorial of her exalted worth and talents, to shew 

the unthinking crowd what may be done, and to hold 

forth an example of what has been done, even in so 

short a space of time, by fulfilling the duties of a 

Christian life, and the purposes of rational existence. 

" You know that I am no advocate, generally 

speaking, for biographical sketches and memoirs. 

The vanity of some of these communications might 

well be spared, and the profligacy of others ought 

not to be endured. But if the reflecting reader, 

tired or disgusted with a mere series of adventures, 

should prefer a narrative that led the mind to thought, 

to one that only filled it with wonder or amusement; 

if he had rather follow Cowper to his study than a 

general to the field, or a statesman to the cabinet ; 

to such a class of readers, I scruple not to say, you 

have it in your power to offer a most captivating 

publication . Every page I unfold fills me with fresh 

astonishment ; and when T collect the evidence of 

your daughter's attainments within the short period 

of her earthly existence, when I combine the graces 

of person, and the elegance of accomplishments, 

with her more noble and higher distinctions of in 



[216 ] 

tellecl:, I seem to lose sight of what once adorned 
society, and to be tracing a form of ideal perfection. 
" Over every thing she touches she seems to 
spread a new charm; and whether she furnifhes 
materials from her own capacious mind, or draws 
them from the stores of others, there is a choice and 
arrangement which evinces the soundest judgment, 
as well as the sweetest imagination. Her feelings 
are exquisite, but never romantic; and in the flight 
of her most excursive fancy, she keeps within the 
bounds of truth and taste. In all that she invents 
or describes, nothing is overcharged or unnatural. 
Her pen, like her pencil, places every object in the 
most pleasing point of view; and the delicacy of her 
thoughts is even heightened by the purity, I may 
say piety, of the expressions in which they are con- 
veyed. In her various translations from the Ger- 
man, and other languages, most of which I have 
compared with the different authors, she never 
mistakes or weakens the spirit of the original. — • 
Klopstock, under her management, talks English as 
well as his native tongue; and the warmest of his 
admirers would rejoice to hear the facility and pre- 
cision with which she has taught their favourite poet 
aid philosopher to converse amongst us. Of her 



) 



[ «*7 1 

Hebrew versions, of which I would not allow my- 
self to be a competent judge, I can now speak in 
the strongest terms of praise, from the testimony of 
some of our best Hebrew scholars, to whom the 
Book of Job has been more particularly submitted. 
The opinion of this extraordinary production, trans- 
mitted to me by a friend who ranks among the first 
in this department of literature, I here subjoin. 

( My dear Sir, 
c T havk exceeded the time I had prescribed to 
myself for sending you my report of the MS. of Job; 
but I was desirous to form the best judgment I was 
capable of, before I ventured on a final opinion. I 
have now, however, most fully satisfied my mind 
upon the subject ; and I feel that I should do great 
injustice to the work, if I did not pronounce it to be 
an excellent translation. After a close scrutiny, and 
a careful comparison with the original, it strikes me 
as conveying more of the true character and mean- 
ing of the Hebrew, with fewer departures from the 
idiom of the English, than any other translation 
whatever that we possess. It combines accuracy of 
version with purity of style, and unites critical re- 

Q 



[ 218 ] 

search with familiar exposition. From the received 
translation it very seldom unnecessarily deviates, 
which I consider to be a proof of the author's taste 
and judgment; for, in general, the language of our 
Englifh Bible is such as no one possessing these 
would wish to alter. The correction of error, and the 
improvement of the sense, seem to be the only in- 
ducements, and serveas the chief guides in every vari- 
ation of phrase adopted in the version of your friend. 
These variations are undoubtedly sometimes consi- 
derable, but always ingenious, and generally well- 
founded, and never hazarded but with reasonable 
colour, and manifestly after much investigation. 
New readings and new significations are occasionally 
introduced ; and from the appearance of some of 
these at the commencement of the work, I had at 
first been led to entertain doubts as to the merit of 
the translation; but upon farther acquaintance, and 
a fuller review, I find them much less frequent and 
Jess violent than (I am sorry to say) are to be met 
with in most of our modern versions of the various 
parts of the Old Testament. Conjectural emenda- 
tions of the text particularly are most sparingly in- 
dulged in; so that upon the whole, I cannot but re- 
commend the publication of the entire version; in 



[ 219 ] 

the fullest confidence that it will be received as a 
valuable present by the lovers of biblical literature/ 

" Upon such proofs, I may venture to rest my 
justification, if any be necessary,' for earnestly re- 
questing your permission to draw from the journal of 
her improvement a simple narrative of your daugh- 
ter's life. Many of the documents must necessarily 
be omitted, but enough may be given to confirm 
our estimate of her worth, and prove to the world 
that it has not been raised beyond its due standard 
by the partiality of her sorrowful and surviving 

friends. If the dear companion of some of her 

early studies might be prevailed on to undertake the 
arrangement of the materials, (and I think our 
solicitations to her for that purpose may not be in 
vain,) your mind will be better reconciled to the 
measure, and the world will be satisfied as to the 

fidelity of the detail. Let us, I beseech you, 

unite to accomplish this; and believe me, &c." 

* Letter from the Rev. Dr. Magee, of Trinity college, 
Dublin, author of Discourses on the Doctrine of the Atone- 
ment. 



FINIS. 



The following WORKS, printed by R. CrvItwell, Bath, may be had 
of the Publishers of this Volume. 

SERMONS on the DOCTRINES and DUTIES of CHRISTIANITY. 
8vo. 5s. The same Work in i2mo. 4s. 

POEMS and ESSAYS, by the late MISS BOWDLER. Elegantly printed 
in quarto, with a Portrait of the Author. ll. is. 

The same Work in Octavo. 6s. 

PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS on the REVELATIONS of St. JOHN. 

By the late MRS. BOWDLER. 5s. 

The FAMILY SHAKESPEARE : containing Twenty of the moft ad- 
mired Plays, in which every objectionable part is expunged, without the 
addition of a single line. il. ios. 

ESSAY on the HAPPINESS of the LIFE to COME. 4s. 

HYMNS on various Subjects: extracted from the Psalms. By the Author 

of the Essay on Happiness. 4s. 

LECTURES on ASTRONOMY and NATURAL PHILOSOPHY, for 

the Ufe of Children. Designed to unite Sentiments of Religion with 
the Study of Nature. 



Printed by Richard Cruttwell, St. James's-Street,Bath. 



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